


interstellar light years from you

by flailingthroughsanity



Series: stardust [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Character Death, Drama, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 08:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15115541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: It’s not difficult, Shiro thinks, realizing who is lurking in the shadows behind Lance, by the pillars of the oddly-lit cantina. It’s not difficult at all – if he can get past the rushing memories of laser-fire and binary sunsets and Corellia’s relentless waves, all swept under purple-gleamed eyes and a soft kiss against his lips – and if Shiro can swallow his tattered pride and the ice in his heart, he can almost forget the burn of where his arm used to be, forget the moment he turned his head and found himself in the crosshairs of Keith’s blaster fire.Almost.It’s not difficult, Shiro realizes, as Keith slowly makes his way towards them, slithering in like a ghost. It’s unbearable.Keith had promised forever, in the star-lined, blue backdrop of hyperspace and past the rush of Star Destroyers and Naboo’s glittering rivers. All it takes is blaster fire, a broken starfighter wing and crashing into the gunship’s side for things to go terribly wrong. Shiro doesn’t know when it all fell apart.





	interstellar light years from you

**Author's Note:**

> So...I was listening to Starset's playlist while Rogue One: A Stars Wars Story was playing on TV while I was looking at Sheith fanart. 1 (or maybe 2) days later, this pops out. I haven't slept at all. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.
> 
> CW: alcohol, violence, sex, slight noncon, death
> 
> Added a few screencaps and gifs from the series to give you guys a more detailed idea on the setting. Let me know if it's effective or if it was better to have edited them out in the first place lol.

**interstellar light years from you**

* * *

****_Send out the signal and I'll fly low,_  
_if it means the death of me, I won't let go._  
_And if I'm lost in the world's shadows,_  
_I'll use the light that comes to me from your halo._

  * _Halo;_ Starset



* * *

 

 

Telosian ale tasted like hell. It wasn’t the killer – literal killer – drink that Huttese ale was, but the blue-grey drink in Keith’s hand barely tasted any better. He has no idea why he keeps going back to it, though. Probably because it packed a punch – lights out, pure blackout. Worked faster than a Wookiee slamming you against the wall – less damaging than being hit by a speeder’s hull by another pissed off drunk. The Bith bartender behind the counter had handed it to him in a durasteel mug, in response to Keith’s sullen glare, and – well – Keith wasn’t one to pass up anything to slowly kill him.

He takes the drink and hands over wrinkled credits, squinting at the mug. Who in kriff’s name uses durasteel for pints?

“It will not melt the mug like Huttese,” the Sullustan pilot next to him by the counters remarked. Keith grunted in response, his lips grimacing as the smell hit his nose. A snort comes from his right. “The first shot always feels like a rancor fucked you hard.”

“Know how that feels.” The grin on Keith’s face is sardonic, and he breathes once – twice – thrice and holds his breath, tipping his head back and drinking the shot in one go.

_E chu ta!_ Gods, fuck. His mind instantly sizzles out and his tongue feels like someone just attached a live-wire lined to a hyperdrive. Keith automatically slams the mug down the counter, feels the dents of the surface and starts cursing out in every language he knows.

He hears barking laughter from the Sullustan, and he has half a mind to give him the finger. Instead, Keith groans and slams his head down the steel and starts realizing why the mug was durasteel in the first place.

“Fuck.” He manages to get out, and when he opens his eyes, the bright-red and blue of the cantina lights start flashing faster and slower like a buggy holo. “Poodoo. Gimme another.”

The pilot thumps a small hand on his back and Keith groans, the action displacing his vision instantly. “You think you can handle it, boy?”

Keith rolls his eyes – or tries to, anyway, because he’s not sure if he’s really rolling his eyes or the world is just rolling in his vision for him. The blaster guard presses against his hip and he shifts in his seat, leaning on his elbows on the counter and trying to slow his breathing down. The music shifts in his hearing – something that sounds oddly Shawda-Ubb or, well, whatever it was – and he furrows his brows, not sure if the mug before him is empty or full. “Another one. Please.”

The Bith says something in, er, Bith but Keith can’t really find it in him to bother translating, and he ends up putting his nose near the mug to realize it’s a new shot. The hand on his back turns to a grip on his shoulder and the Sullustan starts grinning at him and – like the weight of a freighter against his chest – Keith imagines taupe eyes and a gentle smile.

He suddenly feels like he’s about to throw up. He grabs the mug and downs it, instead.

The burn is a bit more manageable – a bit is an overstatement, but there’s a grain of truth – this time around. He pretty much braced himself for the steely-tang taste and the white-hot fire on his tongue, and the Bith bartender that suddenly started cloning himself was a lot less surprising. Gods, he loves Telosian ale. It tastes like shit and feels like a fucking Hutt just barreled into him.

Something nonsensical garbles in his ear and Keith swats at it, groaning, and the Sullustan barks this big, boisterous laugh and Keith starts laughing – the kind that tips over the edge of vomiting, the kind that skirts the line towards sobbing.

“t’rd ‘ime?” The words echoed in Keith’s ears, as if swimming through a torrent and he makes a questioning noise. The Sullustan puts his mouth closer and repeats his question. “Third time, kid?”

“Hell ‘eah,” He’s sure he’s slurring. Probably. Definitely. Keith feels both hot and cold, searing flames under his skin and ice over them. He pushes his hand into his pocket and starts feeling around for more credits, feeling bits of metal and paper – he’s gotten to that point of inebriation where he doesn’t give a crap as to what he’s handing over the counter. He’s sure that it’s enough – or maybe even more than the exact price – as the Bith takes it and hands him another pint. Had it been less, Keith would end up finding starlight up a Telos sky next to the garbage disposal canisters outside.

Somehow, the lighting-arc coursing through him at the next shot feels a lot less shocking, numbed and dulled. He’s not even sure if he managed to finish the shot but he feels something wet run across his arm and up his jacket and it feels a bit too warm to be the shot. He manages to blink his eyes open and finds something whitish – through the haze and the blurriness and the dulled out hearing – over the counter—

Feels someone patting him on the back, down his shoulder blades and a hand on his lap—

Keith feels his vomit run down his cheek, but he doesn’t give two flying banthas as he turns in his seat, and holds the blaster aloft – pointing it between the pilot’s eyes—

The Sullustan stills, one hand still on Keith’s shoulder, the other on his lap – near his pocket –

“Hey, hey, calm down, kid,” the words are friendly, easy and the pilot raises his hands up to his head, trying to make himself look less hostile. Keith, even in the haze of intoxication, can still see the way the other’s eyes shift around, panic at the edges. Typical.

Just. Typical.

“No one told you stealing’s wrong?” Keith slurs, his nose crinkling as he smells the vomit. Gods, that’s going to take a while to forget. He focuses on the barrel of his blaster, tries to curb in the impulse to pull the trigger, to attack, to ignore reason and potential loss and just target his rage into something that would _bleed_ – _patience yields focus, Keith_ – and his hand only trembles once as a voice, a memory of a voice, echoes in his head. It’s enough – for it to shake once. It’s enough. A victory.

“Wasn’t stealing from ya, kid. Was helpin’ ya out,” Keith bristles. He has been, ever since the pilot started calling him ‘boy’ and ‘kid’ and it grates in his ears and on his hands. The uneasy smile on the other’s face turns condescending – like an adult talking to a child throwing a tantrum – and Keith’s vision flashes red.

_Blaster barrel. Blaster barrel. Naboo quadrants. Coruscant hyperspace codes. Breathe. Breathe._ He tells himself, still in his seat. He doesn’t notice what’s happening around – if the other patrons noticed the drunk human with a blaster out or if the Bith had started calling Telosian police or the cantina’s own security droids. Keith hopes it’s the latter. He isn’t exactly a…legitimate traveler and he doesn’t need to be locked in a Telosian prison for illegal travel.

“C’mon, kid. Put the blaster down,” the pilot’s smile starts fading at the edges, and Keith starts noting the pilot’s own blaster in a shoulder holster. Standard-issue, medium-range. BlasTech, probably. It looked enough like one. Even with him being more-than-half drunk, Keith’s pretty sure he could get a shot in before the pilot could even make for his blaster.

Except, the crowd at the peripheries of his vision are starting to move away, slowly, noticing the incoming confrontation. Except—

They’re not really looking at Keith, he thinks, but someone approaching him and the pilot.

A mauve-lavender hand – well, less hand and more of a paw – pushes Keith’s blaster away from the pilot’s face and he sighs, slowly turning his head to face Thace. “I wasn’t gon’ shoot ‘im.”

The expression on the Galran’s is far from amused – as perpetually stoic and stern as the day Keith had met him, falling behind a boulder and evading blaster fire. The Galran’s ears, hidden under his pointed mane, twitch and Keith knows he’s scouting out the other patrons behind them, listening in. Only the slight furrow of dark-purple brows indicated any sign of irritation, yellow eyes looking over his form. Keith raises his free hand and wipes the vomit off his chin.

Thace nods and pats the blaster, doesn’t stop glaring at Keith until he holsters it against his hip. The pilot is watching them both warily – more so at Thace than Keith. After all, what was one human man with a blaster compared to a Galran?

“Let’s go.” Thace finally says, his voice brooking no argument. Flat. Keith grunts, manages to get off his seat without tripping on flat ground and breaking his nose on the floor. Again. His vision is still tumbling, and the music of the cantina is both too loud and too soft, but he manages to throw a mocking salute at the pissed-off pilot and slowly stagger after Thace’s bulky form. They pass through the cantina in relative peace, and given a wide berth by the other patrons. Keith makes eye contact with the Twi’lek serving some of the drinks and she looks away – her lekku shifting – raising the steel tray over her like a makeshift shield.

He sighs, ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck, ignores the hushed whispers and the unwelcoming glares thrown his way. Typical.

The Gamorrean guard at the door snorts at him, raising his arg’garok threateningly. Keith scoffs, looking away from the gigantic axe and makes a face at Thace, who is looking back at him, a warning in his eyes.

“What was that, Keith?” Was the first thing Thace asks when they’ve stepped out of the cantina and into the Telosian nighttime air. The nearby establishments had long closed, and a few stragglers turned to look at them in curiosity. Or wariness, but directed at Thace.

“Just getting’ a drink.” Keith answers, shrugging. What was so wrong about getting shitfaced, anyway? It’s not like this is the first time Thace has ever seen him thrashed. The Galran crosses his arms, the muscles bunching up and the dark-grey material of his jacket follow the movement.

“And pointing blasters at bystanders?” Thace bites, sneering. Keith feels his hackles rise, ducking as his hair falls into his eyes.

“He was trying to steal my money.”

A brow is raised. “Trying. And you vomit, put a blaster to his face and make a scene.”

This time, it’s Keith who crosses his arms as he growls at the other. “What was I s’posed to do? Let him steal shit from me?”

Thace sighs, and the weariness that lines it has Keith feel something ugly bubbling in his stomach…on top of the other ugly things already there. He doesn’t look at Thace, instead looks above his shoulder and at a graffiti on a nearby wall. _Fuck the Empire_ it says. “No, Keith. What you should have done was keep your head low and not bring any attention to you, or us.”

Keith bites his lip, the slow-simmering guilt chipping away at the ale’s buzzing. The horizon isn’t distorting anymore, and he can relatively breathe deeper without feeling like he’s about to heave his guts out like acid. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Pointed. Sharp. Direct. The disappointment is clear. Keith closes his eyes, struck. His hand makes way for his right wrist, clutching it tight, feeling the scar and just—breathing.

“I do, Thace. I do.”

Silence follows, and Keith doesn’t notice Thace stepping closer until he feels a big hand on his shoulder. He can feel the claws press against the skin over his shoulder, but they don’t hurt. In spite of how he looks, of how he can actually be – Thace is premeditated, organized. Keith is blasterfire and ale-shots, and Thace picks up the useless pile of limbs that can’t stand anymore after a night’s drinking.

“What was it this time?” He asks, voice even. Low. Keith can almost call it ‘gentle’.

Keith crosses his arms even tighter, looking away from the Galran. His toes curl inwards in his boots and he feels the texture of his socks, the scratchy surface under his skin and he breathes out, trying to ease the weight off his chest.  “He patted my back. Gripped my shoulder.”

Just like what Thace was doing – if the slow removal of the Galran’s hand was any indication. “I see.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Keith cuts in, steering the conversation away from that topic. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the ghost of another person who patted his back, gripped his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need anything. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting us jobs?”

Thace looks at him, yellow eyes calculating and Keith resists the urge to fidget under his gaze. “Yes. I found us one. Already rigged the credentials in.”

“Great,” Keith forces an excited smile on his face, his tone dry. Thace doesn’t smile back, unamused at the sarcasm. Well, even on Keith’s relatively good days, the Galran rarely smiles so it’s not like it was a loss of any sort of significance, anyway. “I was wonderin’ if we’re gonna have to sell ourselves to get through the week.”

Thace turns away from him and starts making his way down the street, towards the busier parts of the capital city. Keith follows, eyes already on the silhouettes of Thani’s towers. “So, what’s this job all about? Smuggling? Theft? Political assassination?”

Thace’s right ear twitches, and even Keith rolls his own eyes at the last one. Anything that involved galactic politics – Imperial Stormtroopers and Rebel fighters and all that poodoo – was out of the question. Like they needed the chance to be in direct view of two clumps of people who either wants to kill them or wants to use them as meat shields.

“Escort. Three stops. We hit Eriadu first.” Thace throws over his shoulder as the hangar building comes in view. Keith pulls his lips down, nodding. Not bad. Escort missions could be boring, depending on who they’re escorting. They’ve done criminals and refugees and even ferried some old man in a cloak that Keith was pretty sure, until now, was a Jedi. It was probably because the man tried to tell him his future by reading his palm.

Keith had shut the door of his cabin in his face, creeped out. The credits were good, though.

Shaking his head, Keith rests his hand on the grip of the blaster against his hip and reaches up with his other hand, feeling the necklace under his shirt, intimately familiar with each groove and notch down to the circular pendant resting against his sternum. Thace walks on ahead and Keith is struck, once more, with the realization of how cold he is – no lingering moments, no easy laughter and manic drive. He’s far too alike with Keith, just another tattered wanderer trying to fix things in whatever way possible.

He grips his blaster tighter. It’s fine. It’s enough.

Keith ducks his head and melds into the shadows behind the Galran – disappearing.

∞

“Keith! What the fuck, man?” Lance shouts, voice blaring through the communications module. Keith tastes blood on his lips, and ignores the colossal weight on his chest, the one that stops his breathing, the one that feels like he’s slowly being buried alive.

There’s a flash of red and, even in the distance, Keith can imagine the painful, ear-splitting screech of the Z-95’s wing crashing against the side of Pidge’s gunship. The wing breaks on impact, splitting from the main body and flies into open space and Shiro’s shout of surprise is cut short as the radio transmitter flies away with it. The engine thrusters, blown out by Keith’s blasters, splutter and flick out and Shiro’s starfighter floats like rubble. Just in time, as the Star Destroyer that comes out of hyperspace fires its cannons, raining destruction, missing Shiro’s ship by an inch.

The mountain-heavy weight on his chest turns to glass shards as Keith moves the crosshairs and targets Shiro’s ship. His hands are cold, colder than anything, than Alderaan’s snowy caps, than outerspace.

“Keith…why?” Pidge’s voice is small, low, _betrayed_ in the radio. Lance’s ship flies to where Shiro’s is, dodging laser fire, the gunship moving to cover them with its particle barrier. TIE fighters start their strafing runs, flying out in packs, ready to take them down without mercy. Laser fire collides with the shields, and it stands strong for now – until the TIE bombers come, until the Star Destroyer readies its own cannons once more.

Keith’s chin quivers, and he lets go of the grip to press his palm against his open mouth, trying to still the sob crawling out of his throat. The Z-95 is hauled inside the gunship, Hunk covering Lance and Shiro’s flank.

The barcode on the inside of Keith’s wrist glares at him, and something dies inside him.

“For the Empire,” he whispers, voice hoarse and broken. The communication module is open to all available channels – including the Star Destroyer nearby, to Shiro’s cockpit, to Pidge’s gunship where it will be recorded and ready to be played. Over and over. “For the Emperor.”

Radio silence is the response from Shiro’s channel. Keith grips his chest, feels the pendant against his sternum and it burns his skin like molten lava. The tracks on his cheeks are cold, and his hopes crumble in his hands when Pidge’s gunship jumps into lightspeed – Lance, Hunk and Shiro disappearing in the seconds after.

∞

The inside of the corvette is cold. It’s always cold, the heater turned low – conservation, Thace would say – and Keith gets it, he gets the idea. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s like ice inside steel walls, like the entirety of Hoth compartmentalized into a cold death trap. It nipped at the edges of his fingers and the soles of his feet, forcing Keith to wrap the blanket even tighter around his frame. He hasn’t changed out of his jacket yet, and it shields a bit of the chill from him.

He turns in his cot, facing the steel wall instead of the other side of the room, where Thace’s bunk is empty. The Galran always took the first shift on the stick, and Keith knows that Thace wakes him a little later than agreed when it came to his shift. Normally, Keith would find some way to appreciate it – appreciate it enough since he’s always pissed drunk the moment he hits the single, beaten-up pillow of his cot.

Drunk enough to dream of inky black and cold, cold space instead of the past. Drunk enough not to spend that single moment between slumber and consciousness, imagining threads of dark hair and taupe eyes.

“Shit.” He thinks, as he turns the other way again. Telosian ale. Certified to make you forget everything – all the shitty things you did – the night, and years, before but you just have to make sure that you’re jacked up on it enough to pass out over the bar counter. Drink too little, and the onslaught winds down to a stand-still in a few hours and you end up restless and twitchy. “Damn it.”

Keith sits up, resting his back against the steel wall and scratches at his head. His right leg is jumping in place, and he’s semi-conscious of it as he looks around, for anything to distract him. He turns back to his pillow, and he feels under it and catches the bottom end of his flask.

Opening it, Keith presses it against his lips and tips his head back and tastes…nothing.

“Kriffing hells.” He puts the flask back down on his bed a little too forcefully, manages to count to ten, before he’s standing up and slipping on his boots.

Outer space is always cold – there’s just no escaping it, not when the nearest sun or star is several parsecs away. The hallway lighting of the corvette is dimmed, but he doesn’t really need it. He can make his way through even with his eyes closed.

A buzz and a chirp to his side, and he turns to the astrodroid exiting the engine room. “Hey, Yorak.”

The droid beeps in Binary, lights flashing as Keith nods at it, only half-listening. Still had enough fuel to do two jumps into lightspeed, and there was no need to replace the capacitators yet. Good, because they were expensive as hells. “Keep up the good work, Yorak.”

The R2 droid beeps happily before continuing on, heading towards the communications booth. Keith watches it roll away for a moment, before following the line towards the cockpit. The main hold is dark, save for the low-powered lighting of the holocomm.

“Hey,” he greets, entering the bridge and dropping down on the seat next to Thace’s. The Galran has removed his jacket, dressed only in a black shirt, and Keith runs his eyes down the purple-skinned arms and up to the wrist. He ignores the splotches of black around the forearms as he turns in his seat, facing the hurtling starlines streaking past them, the glow of hyperspace painting the inside of the cockpit blue.

Galrans generated more heat than humans, and Keith is a bit jealous as he wraps the blanket tighter around his frame. His hair is in the way and he whips a hand out to push it back, reaching around to feel if the tie is still there and hasn’t come off in his tossing.

“I can take over, if you want.” Keith offers, noting the lines of exhaustion under Thace’s gold eyes. He really can’t tell if they’re darker or if they’re just the same – the Galran had never shown signs of fatigue before, not in the last eleven months Keith’s known him. Thace doesn’t answer him, and Keith doesn’t press – he’s become a bit familiar with the other’s moods, knows when to start conversation, no matter how short it would be, and when to shut up.

Thace is playing with a charm around his left wrist – made out of japor ivory wood. A good luck charm. Keith doesn’t know if Galrans believed in good luck, or luck in general – he can’t believe _Thace_ believes in luck. He’s always been about action and reaction, and thinking things through.

Keith doesn’t really believe in luck. He believes in consequence and causality. He believes in a chain of reaction. Sometimes, to get to a good end – the ideal end, the best end in any shitty situation – you have to get through the ugly parts first. Get to peace, you gotta spend a few days in hell.

“My daughter.” Thace says, the index claw running dawn the side of the charm. Keith keeps his mouth shut, tight, as he watches Thace eye the charm and wonders if he’s imagining the labored way the other was breathing, the slight tremble of his wrist and the weary-lined regret in his eyes. Keith doesn’t know much about the Galran but he knows enough of them.

A nomadic race, bred strong warriors, proud and noble – could lift starfighters with their bare hands and rip through durasteel armor with their claws. Does not do well under subjugation. They remind Keith of Wookies.

Keith swallows, and he resists the urge to run his fingers over his wrist. The Empire had _other_ thoughts on the more rebellious planets under its control. Kashyyyk was just one of the many planets that had felt the jackboot of imperial aggression and he still hears about it, until now, how the wroshyr trees of the planet are still red with the blood of her people.

He imagines Thace’s daughter – would look like him, curved lips that could form a smile in the rarest moments, graceful movement, the same twitching of the ears when checking the surroundings or when Keith does something monumentally stupid. He doesn’t want to, but he imagines Stormtroopers gunning her down and he grips the blanket tighter, if it means he doesn’t get to curl over and feel like pulling his own stomach out of his mouth.

_I’m not one of them anymore._ He thinks. He repeats. It’s a mantra that has kept him sane in the last eleven months.

_I’m not one of them anymore._ If he thinks about it enough, if he repeats it enough, he can believe it. Maybe.

Unbidden, green laser fire pops in his mind, and he can still recall – with immense clarity, the way Shiro’s thrusters exploded—

_I’m not one of them anymore_. He bites his lip and turns to face the star lines, and sees nothing but a snippet of Shiro crashing into the side of the gunship playing over and over.

He doesn’t know if he’s talking about the Empire, or Voltron.

∞

Corellia’s waves are a sight to behold.

The waves are huge – colossal – and they tumble against the craggy mountainside with the force of asteroids. The clash – the rippling – echoes from the sea below to head up to the cliff where he’s standing, his legs over the edge and the wind in his face. The sky is greyed-out, dark, but it’s not raining. The breeze that whips at him has a bit of cold, but not enough to force him back inside his own starfighter.

Coronet City gleams in the distance, fading in and out in the heavy wind.

“Aren’t you cold?” A voice asks, and Keith turns and finds Shiro walking towards him, hands in his own pockets and the wind pushing his hair up his head.

Keith raises a corner of his lip. “Nope. The cold never bothered me.”

Shiro raises a brow in skepticism, taupe eyes light and shining and Keith bites his lip, unable to look away from the wide grin on the other’s lips. “That’s not what you said last night.”

The memories come rushing back – the dulled lights of the cabin, the too-thin blankets pooling by his ankles and Shiro’s big hand too warm, too hot on his own skin, banishing the cold that crept his way – and Keith turns his head before the other could catch the reddening of his cheeks. “I don’t know what I said last night.”

His voice comes out less irritated and more put-out and Keith knows Shiro hears it, because he’s laughing. Loud and boisterous and reverberating. Keith wonders if it’s possible to record something like that – in its essence, to the base of what it is. The holocomms can’t capture the intensity of Shiro’s lilting laugh, nothing can.

Keith feels Shiro lowering himself beside him, long legs hanging off the edge next to his. The press of Shiro’s thigh against his own is hot and Keith can’t stop himself from inching closer as they look towards the open sea and the tumbling of her waves, almost violent, almost riotous.

“Not everyone appreciates Corellia for what it is,” Keith says – filling the silence – and he turns his head to the side, squinting his eyes in the wind and Shiro smiles back at him, tight lipped. Just for him. “It’s not easy to live here, but it’s,” Keith shrugs with a shoulder, glancing back to the sea, “it’s beautiful, in its own way.”

“It’s untamed, turbulent,” Shiro agrees, voice flickering in the breeze. Keith hears him clearly, “it doesn’t let itself be controlled and it takes a lot of work and patience to adjust yourself to it but, yeah, it’s beautiful.”

Keith turns to him, and finds Shiro staring back, and the grey sky paints the taupe of his eyes into ochre. He feels like Shiro’s not talking about the planet, or the ocean.

The hand next to his thigh runs up his arm and up his cheek, Shiro’s thumb pressing against his jaw. Keith leans in to the touch, looking towards the fighters—“What about—?”

They were here on a job, get contacts and deliver relief goods to refugees hiding from the Empire. Corellia was the last place for most people to hide in, not when it was under heavy Imperial control. It was a good thing that Voltron was exceptionally skilled in defying the odds.

“They’ve gone. I already got the payment and I’ve transmitted them to Pidge. She’ll get us out of here on my signal.” Shiro answers, his thumb drawing circles on the skin under Keith’s ear and his eyes flutter close at the feeling. “Let’s stay here a bit, just enjoy the view.”

“I’m not really viewing anything, you know,” He retorts, eyes still closed and smiling when the thumb under his ear stops their ministrations and Shiro pulls at the lobe in response to his smartass answer.

“Stop being cheeky.” Shiro grins – Keith can _hear_ it in his voice – as the hand grips his neck and he feels the prod of the captain’s nose against his. He can smell cedar seeping off Shiro’s skin, and he can feel the press of his lips against the skin of Keith’s jaw.

Keith is willing – always willing, always ready, can never pull his defenses up – when Shiro’s touch falls on his skin, every switch inside him flicked towards the man with his lips up his chin. “Please, you love it when I’m cheeky.”

The lips against his jaw pauses, and when Shiro speaks, his voice is low and hot with want. “I do.”

∞

It takes almost eighteen hours for them to exit lightspeed and hit the nearest system, and even though Keith’s already braced himself for it, it still feels like a punch to his gut when they pull out into Corellia’s gravity. The blue-green planet eclipses most of the cockpit’s view and Keith grips the arm of his chair a bit too tightly at the familiar swirls of her atmosphere, the distant patches of vegetation on her earth, the blue of her oceans and Keith can recall – with an intensity that bordered on painful – the feel of the waves against his skin, lapping at his legs and the memory of too-tight arms around his waist and the press of lips against his temple, the setting sun painting everything in gold.

Yorak beeps beside him, and he’s grateful that droids aren’t – at least, this one – configured to note the crack in his voice. “Yeah. That’s Corellia.”

The astrodroid hums and chirps before slowly turning away, heading towards the main hold – probably to wake Thace up. Keith doesn’t really wish for it to hurry up, still unwilling to tear his eyes away from the circular motions of the planet’s clouds and the forgotten promise to return here, someday.

_I’m here, Shiro._ He thinks – and it rips the air from his lungs. _For what it’s worth, I’m here now._

But the moment dies when he hears the pad of Thace’s footsteps approaching, and he only has a second to wipe all the emotion from his face, for him to duck his head and start punching in coordinates and adjusting the propulsions.

The Galran takes the co-pilot’s seat and Keith mutters a distracted ‘hey’, reaching up to pull a lever, shutting down the extra thrusters and conserving their fuel – slowing their descent towards the station in Corellia’s orbit, almost invisible against the gorgeous backdrop of the planet.

Imperial control was still heavy in Corellia, although the surrounding planets of Talus and Drall bore less presence of the Galactic Empire. Probably because Corellia had the biggest shipyards that supplied the Imperial Navy of its cruisers and dreadnoughts.

Keith leans across the dashboard, opening their holocomms. A bored masculine voice echoed in the quiet of the cockpit. “ _Unidentified corvette, this is Rendili Station Control Center. Present pilot credentials or authorization and your purpose.”_

The line clicks and Keith glances at Thace, sees him nod, before he opens the comms line again. “Rendili Station Control Center, this is pilot Ben Antilles, authorization codes zero-eight-nine-eleven. Refueling at Rendili Station for spice shipments to Onderon.”

He leans back, his fingers tapping the edge of the holocomm, silent. “Time to roll the dice.”

It’s always like this – whenever they enter Imperial space, they always put their hopes on their codes still working, that their contact hasn’t tipped the entire Imperial Navy to two traitors about to enter the jaws of the beast. He can’t help but compare the runs that Voltron did – Gods, he hates the name so much, hates how Lance forced everyone to call themselves Voltron, hates how Shiro had lighted up, shrugged his shoulder and agreed – all under the cover of Pidge Holt, a registered cargo pilot with roots in Ord Mantell.

Still, in the fall out, this was the best way he can help – help fix what he had helped destroy.

The holocomm flashes red and Keith opens the line. “ _Pilot Zero-Eight-Nine-Eleven, you are cleared for entry. Welcome to Rendili Station.”_

“Copy that, control. Good to be back.” The last sentence is the only truth he’s said so far.

Closing the comms line, Keith adjusts the coordinates of the corvette and they watch as they head towards the station circling Corellia.

It would have been too much, to actually land on Corellia. It would have brought too much attention – especially with the entire planet under the control of an Imperial Moff. Rendili Station was different, still under the eye of the Empire but allowed to go about their business, one station of millions under a gigantic corporation’s name.

He knows that there would be no time, and it would be too risky to land in Corellia, but Keith can’t help but keep his eyes on her, tracing her image into his mind, and recalling the scent of the sea and the feel of the cliff under his hands.

The landing is smooth, the corvette’s transition flawless. The station droids start angling up her starboard side, attaching fuel lines and checking for irregularities. Keith wraps the cloak around his jacket, pulling the hood up as he walks to the exit.

Thace opts to say aboard and Keith nods, unsurprised – it was best for a Galran to keep to himself, especially when this close to Imperial presence— though the Galran can’t see it with the way his attention is back on the charm against his wrist.

He feels each step turn heavy as he makes his way down the ramp, nodding at the nearby droid. The hangar is cold – both the temperature and the design. Functional. Steel and glass windows and security droids standing by blast doors. There’s not much to the station – fuel and mining. Drop-off point for fuel packs and cargo delivery of durasteel. Nothing remarkable.

Keith makes his way across and finds purchase on a balcony next to an open view of Corellia. He pulls his knees up against his chest, arms around them and rests his cheek against them, breathing in the sight of her.

A beep and he turns his head, finds Yorak had followed him to the perch. The droid’s upper casing rotates, the blinking blue light pointed towards him.

Keith hums, reaching a hand out to pat the droid’s head. “Everythin’ well?”

Yorak chimes happily and Keith can’t help but grin a bit. “Good. You’re doin’ a great job, you know that?”

The astrodroid beeps excitedly, trembling a bit, that Keith’s somewhat worried it’ll short-circuit itself. He spies the radio-navigator installed to its side and, well, the thought is stupid and he’s being stupid but it’s too tangible to ignore. The numbers are in his head, and the frequency channels are too ingrained in his mind for him to forget for any reason whatsoever.

Keith wipes a hand down his face and lets out a loud breath. “Yorak…”

The R2-droid doesn’t move, but the way the blue light flickers slowly, the black paint gleaming azure for a moment, has him imagining a four-legged beast cocking its head to the side in curiosity. Keith’s really stupid. Gods.

“If…” _Just get it out, Keith. Get it out,_ “how…how far can your communicator reach?”

The R2-droid takes in his question before there’s a whirr and a series of Binary beeps and chimes that has Keith scrubbing his jaw. _Just ask the question, damn it. Ask before you explode from keeping it to yourself for too long._

“I mean,” he frowns, pressing his brow against the heel of his palm, “if you hooked up to the _Krolia_ and used her holoterminal…would you be able to call someone, even if you don’t know where they are in the galaxy?”

Yorak buzzes again, and Keith imagines it sifting through its internal memory and its computer and calculating frequency channels and distances from Core World to the Outer Rim and, Keith has a hunch – a guess, already – and he’s thought of the answer more times than he’s thought of the question, has learned to prepare himself but—

When Yorak beeps in a low, _sad_ tone and slowly shakes it’s casing side to side—

The disappointment and the loss pulls the rug under Keith’s feet. Yorak moves a bit closer, beeping in a weird, uncannily – too artificially intelligent – human imitation of consolation.

Keith doesn’t let the bitterness break him, not when he was never whole to start with. “It’s alright, Yorak. There was never anyone to call in the first place.”

Not anymore. He lost the right.

∞

Keith grits his teeth, hisses and growls a curse when the medical droid’s sharp needle pricks his arm. The infirmary – if that’s where he is – is brightly lit in white, sterile fluorescent lights. He doesn’t know what he expected when _they_ found him there, hiding in a cave, half-starved and clutching a blaster rifle to his chest with wide, hunger-driven manic eyes.

He expected the white-on-black of the stormtroopers’ uniform in his vision, blaster barrels trained on him, ready to rain his body with laser fire. He expected crazy wildlife to come upon him – or come upon an intruder in its cave – and he was ready for the possibility of being eaten alive, maybe slowly. He would have deserved it, Keith thinks. He looks down at his hands, and he sees the calluses from gripping a weapon for far too long, and although the skin is devoid of anything else, he can still see the blood and the laser marks of everyone he’s killed.

The soldiers that find him aren’t Stormtroopers. They, also, don’t seem to be part of the growing Rebel network that’s been circulating the Outer Rim planets – Utapau, Ryloth, Dathomir. He’s not really sure, though. They seem like a rag-tag group – no common insignia, no unifying color to have them rally under one banner. Mercenary group, then, Keith thinks.

He doesn’t know what they’ll plan to do to him, or with him. When they had come across him – tired, barely slept, and surviving off the remnants of the ration pack he’d eaten almost a week ago – he had expected to be shot inside, or to have shot back at them.

Thing is – you really can’t shoot with an empty blaster rifle, and only holding on to it to keep the last vestiges of your sanity. There’s commotion outside – loud words are spoken, tempers seem to be flaring.

_“—don’t know who or what he is. He could be a Stormtrooper, for kriff’s sake.”_ Young, heated, passionate. The voice brings a dark-skinned man probably just a few years younger than Keith. The kind that still runs on the tail of idealism, the kind that the galaxy needs to grow and survive.

“ _He’s an injured, starved man who was waving an empty blaster rifle with a shot cartridge. The only dangerous thing about him was if he accidentally knocked himself out with his own rifle._ ” Calm, even and patient. No trace of judgment or suspicion. Keith blinks, remembers the man that entered the cave, flanked by two others. Taller than the rest, broad-shouldered, and the kindest voice Keith’s ever heard in his entire life.

When you grow up an orphan and you’re promised to the Imperial Garrison in Balmorra at four, you soon forget what kindness even means.

A smaller voice follows, compromising. _“I’ll configure the droids to watch him for anything dangerous. Shiro’s right, Lance. He’s too weak and alone to do anything but you have a point, we have no idea who he is. He could be dangerous, not just to us, but to himself._ ”

“ _Yeah, Pidge’s right. The best thing to do is watch him and see how it goes.”_ A deeper voice says, friendly, concerned. Keith bites his lip hard enough to bleed. The last time a fellow Garrison cadet had showed the slightest concern for him, the cadet colonel had dealt with her promptly and mercilessly. The next day, her blaster-fire covered corpse was in the middle of the quad. Keith remembers that she was seven.

“ _Lance?”_ The voice came again – the kind one, the patient one. There’s a shuffle, the medical droid applies a cold serum to his arm that instantly soothes the blunt aching that’s been plaguing him for days, in the aftermath of his escape from the Imperial fortress on the south of Rishi. The local terrain hadn’t been kind to him – he’d fallen, cut himself on strange trees and had been chased by wildlife until he’s pressed his back against the wall of the caves, starving and lonely and broken and in darkness.

The voices outside continue debating, continue arguing over what to do with him.

He doesn’t expect to be saved, to be honest. Keith knows what happens to stowaways and deserters. Nobody, in their right mind, would look at Keith — at the tattered uniform, the identifiable rifle and the barcode on his wrist — and not realize that he was no innocent man.

The mercenaries with him — the one who owns the ship he’s on, the one whose infirmary he is recovering in — obviously saw him for what he was. Keith doesn’t realize that he’s clenched his hand into a fist so hard that the IV line on his wrist was starting to bulge.

_“Sir, please calm yourself down.”_ The medical droid said, monotonous mechanical voice echoing in his ears and Keith breathes, tries to relax. On someone else, this would have been a terrifying situation - thrust into a strange place with strangers and hooked up to chemical lines. His training at the Garrison allowed him to realize that the line attached to his vein is from a nearby bacta tank — Keith would recognize it anywhere. He’s been in it far too many times not to recognize it.

There’s the swish-swooshing sound of the doors opening, and Keith turns his head, catches the man who had been the first to step into the cave — the one who dropped his own blaster rifle and extended his hand out to Keith. Then, he’d seen only the nose and the lips, the rest guarded by the helmet he had on.

In the blinding light of the infirmary, Keith squints and studies the man under his hair. He’s tall, that is obvious, and broad-shouldered, bulky. His form is impeccable, though, from what he can catch over the form of the cuirass. A square jaw, tan skin, dark hair evenly cut save for the front, ruffled and rebellious. That straight nose and the curve of those lips in a kind smile. His eyes are almond shaped, with an odd color - a mixture of brown and grey - and Keith thinks of the reflection of a stormy sky on clear water. Human.

“Nice to see you up.” The man — Shiro, from what he heard outside — comments, lips in a polite smile. Keith notes that there are no weapons on his person, not even a blade, but he also notes the easy, graceful prowl Shiro carried himself — the sharpness lurking beneath the curiosity of his eyes — and Keith notes that the man probably doesn’t need a weapon to be dangerous. A soldier. Former, probably. There are no insignias on his jacket. Special Ops? He has the physique for it. The man, Shiro, tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck a bit — making him look vulnerable.

Keith’s hand tenses. Shiro knows that Keith is studying him and played off his vulnerability. Can pick up emotional cues, then. Definitely Special Ops. Keith can probably take him, but barely, had he been at full strength and in his armor. He knows he’s fast and has no trouble dodging, but Shiro looks like the type to be able to knock him out in a single blow.

“Where am I?” He asks, instead. No need for confrontation. They - Shiro and his, what, team? Subordinates — haven’t fed him to the wolves. A bargain, then. They probably need something from him. He can work with that. If it meant never seeing the white-on-black of his stormtrooper armor, he’ll take it.

“Rishi,” Shiro answers, cocking his head, “but I assume you mean this ship and not the planet? Well, you’re aboard the _Kerberos_. I’m captain Takashi Shirogane, the highest-ranking officer on this vessel.” A smile, lighting up his eyes. “Shiro, if you will. Our medical droid tells us that you may not remember what happened earlier due to the status you came in, but you passed out in the caves a few miles from here when we found you.”

Keith nods, still studying the captain, not saying anything. He doesn’t know what to say, though. This was the captain’s game — he’ll wait for what options are given to him and he’ll make best with what’s offered. It’ll be the Garrison all over again — keep your head down, ignore the person who falls to his knees beside you, just make your superiors proud and avoid anything that will give the Empire cause to put you in their crosshairs. Shoot when you’re told to shoot, zone out the crying faces of the refugees you’re about to gun down.

Ignore the cries of ‘Mama’ as you take aim and put a hole in a little boy’s head.

“You’re an Imperial, aren’t you?” Shiro asks, his voice neutral and careful. Keith tenses, looking away, the stone in his bowles magnifying. He evens his breathing and waits for the inevitable accusation, the disgust and the righteous ire.

What he doesn’t expect is—”What’s your name, soldier?”

The question is surprising, and Keith’s lips work to look for an answer he doesn’t know how to find. Shiro stands, patiently waits for him as he struggles with something so incredibly simple, so fucking easy to do that it has shame and disgust welling up with the force of a maelstrom. “Uh—um—ZX-eight-four-nine—”

“I asked for your _name,_ soldier.” Shiro cuts in, not unkindly. Keith stops himself, tries to stop the inward curl of his shoulders or the incessant need of his hands to cross over his chest and duck down.

“I am ZX-eight-four-nine-zero—”

“That’s not your name, soldier.” Shiro presses, and his voice is low, warm. Welcoming. “That’s a code. That’s a call sign. Not your name. You have a name, soldier. Tell me.”

Keith stills — letting the words sink in. He does. He does have a name.

He doesn’t remember his childhood. He doesn’t remember much of his parents — if they were civilians or soldiers, if they fought for the Rebellion or for the Empire. He doesn’t remember how his mother looks like, doesn’t remember if his father had the same wavy texture of his hair. He doesn’t remember if their eyes were purple like his or maybe some different color, if they scratched their jaw when they were uncomfortable or if they pouted without being aware of it the way Keith does.

What he does remember are their voices, saying his name. That’s the only thing he remembers of them. The only thing that he’s locked in his heart and never let the light see, not in the orphanage where half of the children never even _had_ names. Not in the Garrison where they turned them into weapons, drilled their codes into their minds and into the skin above the veins in his wrist.

_ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven, demonstrate the most efficient method to kill a female Twi’lek carrying dual blasters. Use of lethal weaponry is prohibited. Hand-to-hand, only._

_Zero-point-eight seconds. You missed zero-point-eight seconds, ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven. You will be on guard duty for forty-eight hours without rest._

_Your classmate has disobeyed the rules our Emperor has set. ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven, please show the class what the Empire does to those who disrupt the peace._

It’s the only thing - the only memory - he keeps with him, to keep him sane, to remind him who he is. That he’s not just a weapon. That he’s not just a killer. That he’s not just a shadow in an army of shadows bringing death to where they go.

“Keith. My name is Keith.” He admits, fragile and tender and, had he been any louder — a note louder — his voice would have cracked.

Shiro blinks, a second passes for the words to sink in—

—and he smiles. “That’s a nice name. Thank you, Keith.”

Keith gasps - he can’t stop it - not when it’s the first time he’s heard his own name aloud, not once but twice, and not just lurking in the vicinity of his mind where the Garrison, the Empire and the Imperial Doctrine can never reach him. Not in that one fragile corner where he is still Keith. His vision blurs, and the flourescent lights turn into parallel lines of light.

Shiro offers Keith a choice: to go, run and find a better life somewhere in the galaxy, or stay — and help those who can’t help themselves, and be better. Better than who — what — he is, and, maybe, just maybe, make the galaxy a better place.

It’s both the easiest and the hardest decision of his life.

∞

The prosthetic hand is silver — and it glows gold in the Naboo sunset. Shiro raises his hand, watches the light cut through the grooves and the notches, the wires underneath, and if he focuses enough, he can almost fool himself into thinking that he feels the warmth on his skin.

The waterfall rushing from the back-end of the Theed Palace gleams yellow and rose in the afternoon light, and the foliage rising to meet the teal-crossed-beige dome and spire towers flicker between dark-green and blue. The rushing of the river fills his ears and it eases enough of the weight on his chest for Shiro to breathe.

It’s been a while since he’s breathed this easy. The light glinting off the metal of his arm cuts into his vision and he frowns, pulling the glove from his pocket and forcing it over the right, hiding the wires and the ugliness and the reminder of what he’s lost. A part of what he’s lost.

The glove matches the cut of his jacket, and if he wore the other pair over his left, he could almost be the man he was before — the man who hadn’t lost almost everything. The days are long on the times the arm is heavy by his side, but when he reaches out for an apple with his right, or pats Lance’s back with it accidentally, the easiness — the wonder and the hope that he can get through this — blows his mind away and it’s like he hasn’t lost a single thing.

A fleet of TIE fighters sweep across the urban quarters of Theed and Shiro’s insides twist. Theed, Naboo’s capital city. Naboo - his home world - a planet that was once known for diplomacy above all else, who gave birth to their Emperor. Naboo, whose Queen was murdered by soldiers of the Empire she fought for because she was protecting refugees. Apailana was not the first of many to die in the name of freedom.

“Shiro,” he turns and finds Pidge standing by the steps of the open deck he’s on. She gives him a worried smile, just a bit, and Shiro lowers his hand, tries to clean his face of any emotion, and tries to put a brave front. He’s the captain - _her_ captain. He can’t be weak, not in front of her and the team.

Even with one member short.

“Yes, Pidge?” He prods, after an awkward amount of time has passed as Pidge watches him. She seems to remember the reason why she’s there, and steps closer, her voice lowering. “Is it mister O?”

The use of the codename — O for Organa, senator Bail Organa — has Pidge looking about twice before nodding surreptitiously. “Yeah. Got an encrypted transmission from one of his captains, Raymus Antilles. We’re mobilizing in Eriadu soon. Apparently, there’s a personnel log in the Imperial military base there. Raymus says it contains a list of weapon plans and the engineers who worked on them.”

Shiro frowns, his hand forgotten, as he pretends to stretch his neck, looking about the hallways leading to the deck. He doesn’t see anyone, except for Lance standing under an arch - nodding at him - and Hunk on the other end. He turns back to Pidge. “O wants us to get the log, then? What weapon plans are these logs _for_ exactly?”

“He hasn’t disclosed the full details yet, but I’m sure Raymus will roll the plan out once we get to Eriadu. We’re to rendezvous there with two others — mercenaries hired to guard our backs, I take it.” Pidge continues, a determined look in her eyes. Shiro nodded at her. There will be time to grieve what he’s lost later—

Not when he still had a few, like his team, left. He hasn’t lost everything yet.

“Get the _Kerberos_ ready then.”

∞

“Not bad, soldier.” Shiro laughs in the comms line, echoing in Keith’s ears as their starfighters rush across Dantooine’s plains with ease. Keith’s still getting used to the feel of the fighter in his hands — the Garrison had him do TIE fighter simulations until he was ready to try the real thing, the unspoken clause of failure meaning death hidden under the polite smile of the instructor — and the freedom before him, the rushing grass blades and the wide fields of green and the distant hills.

Dantooine’s skies were as green as the grass on her earth, and when Shiro’s Z-95 rises in altitude to skim the tops of the hills, Keith has no problems pulling the clutches upward, the thrusters of his own starfighter bursting in tandem with Shiro’s.

The exhilaration is amazing, and when the sunlight hits through the visor of the cockpit and he can see Dantooine’s moons past the blue-green sky, he ends up laughing. A laugh that lingered on the edge of a cry and his heart is soaring.

They settle down after a few more rounds, enjoying the slow hum of the fighters as they tip low enough for the grass blades to cut uselessly against the steel. The _Kerberos_ gunship’ outline could be seen past the old ruins of what could have been an enclave, and Keith imagines Pidge tinkering with the ship’s defense system while Lance and Hunk are at the nearby hamlet — ensuring the bacta tanks they’re delivering made its way to the villagers.

He parks his fighter next to Shiro’s and jumps out of the cockpit, throwing his legs over the edge and grinning, the anticipation and awe still thrumming in his veins. He waits for Shiro to pop out, and watches as he leans with one hand and skirts over it in ease, his shirt riding up, jacket left in the cockpit and Keith spies a sliver of hard tan skin.

Shiro’s eyes are bright and the smile on his face is all teeth and shining. “Not too shabby, soldier.”

“Told you I’d give you a run for your money, sir.” Keith responds, his boots tapping the side of the fighter. He thinks the skip his heart makes as Shiro crosses over, smiling bright and grips his shoulder in such an easy manner is because of the still-lingering excitement. Maybe.

“Hey, don’t get ahead of yourself, Keith,” Shiro warns good-naturedly. The smirk that grows on the captain’s lip is predatory, and there’s a shine of challenge and appraisal in his eyes, like his sizing Keith up — for his skill, maybe, but he’s unsure if that’s the only thing Shiro is eyeing him for. There’s been a look of interest there, and Keith feels it. Sometimes. On days he feels he hasn’t become insane, “You haven’t tried flying through an asteroid field with an injured eye from banging your head against the dashboard while avoiding pirates trying to kill you.”

Keith grins, feels hot under Shiro’s gaze, his hands sweating. “Then, we’ll just have to make sure we end up doing that at least once, right?”

Shiro isn’t laughing, not yet anyway. His hand is still on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith doesn’t miss the slight press Shiro does as he finally cracks a grin. Dantooine starlight paints ochre amongst the taupe of Shiro’s eyes. “You got a deal, soldier.”

∞

Some nights, the nightmares come.

Some nights, when the run of the alcohol isn’t strong enough, when it’s not powerful enough or when it doesn’t last long enough — it’s enough for the ugliness to come rising, clawing its way over Keith’s vulnerable form and attack.

It happens in a cantina, when he’s supine over the counter, or when he’s drank one too many, tries to stagger outside and ends up pushing someone into another and, suddenly, there’s a fist in his face and another in his stomach and he’s punching back, eyes closed as vomit drips from his mouth instead of blood. He’s screaming for someone no longer there as he pushes his attacker into the ground and beat his head into the ground, the ingrained training of a stormtrooper inseparable from Keith like bone to muscle.

It happens in a middle of a shoot-out, on the jobs where he and Thace cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed, running under the fire of Imperial guns on rebel soldiers and they’re in the middle, trying to sweep the refugees - the villagers - caught in the middle. He’s holding a Rodian boy to his chest and Keith can feel his little hands bunched up over his shirt and the boy is trembling, traumatized, and blaster fire that runs a few meters away are louder than normal, the weight in his arms are heavier than normal and when he blinks, he’s piloting his starfighter and pulling the trigger, Shiro’s thrusters in his scope and Shiro’s starfighter crashing into the _Kerberos_ in a plume of gold-crimson. He snaps out of it when the fire is over, and the Rodian boy in his arms is six feet away, dead eyes glaring back at him.

It happens in the middle of sex, when he’s drunk off his ass and there’s a bright, burning fire in his veins - incomparable to anything else, white-hot and blinding - and the human across the bar smiles a bit too similarly, his eyes twinkle a bit too similarly and the way he says Keith’s name is too familiar, too unfair and he’s out of his seat, hands on the stranger’s waist, and the taste of whatever drink you call it on Malastre fresh on his lips, and in the tangle of skin and limbs and sweat in the minutes — hours — after, blood starts to pool from the Shiro lookalike’s eyes, mouth agape in a lifeless gasp and Keith’s tumbling off, pulling out and screaming.

Keith feels something hit him in the face, and his eyes open automatically. The nightmare disappears, all of it, the moment his eyes open and the flat line of Thace’s lips greet his vision. He feels wet, exhausted, and weary and he doesn’t need to look about him to know that he’s sweating all over.

“Th-thanks.” It’s the only thing to say, really, in the aftermath — on the times where someone, Thace, anyone else, can snap him out of it. The Galran doesn’t say anything, grunts off-handedly, and walks out of the cabin and leaves Keith to pick up the shreds of whatever’s left of him, his head falling into his hands.

“Kriff,” he says, uselessly. He can feel the corvette’s still in lightspeed, en route to Eriadu, but the job is the last thing on his mind as he feels the starch-dryness of his throat and the almost violent trembling of his hands. He feels the flask digging into his butt and he pulls it out, unscrewing the cap and tipping it against his lips.

The first flush of alcohol into his mouth, against his tongue, has the tension in his muscles loosening. The heaviness in his limbs lighten and when the entirety of the flask’s contents are gone, he lets it fall to the ground in a dull clang, as he leans back against the wall.

His neck is crooked at an awkward angle and the hair is glued to his skin through the sweat and his heart aches with a terrible, too-painful emptiness that’s half a person, half an entire universe.

The wet warmth under his eyes remain, even when his eyes had long dried. A hand down his face, the calluses against his cheek and nose and Keith breathes against the skin.

_Breathe. You can do this. You’ve gotten this far. Breathe._

One step at a time, one day at a time.

Eleven months may be short, but it’s far enough - long enough - for Keith to crawl to with the hole in his chest that is both present and nonexistent.

The alcohol does its magic, like a charm, and the ache doesn’t go away - it never does - but it softens, the sharpness dulls and it doesn’t draw as much blood as it usually does. Still enough to keep him going. Still enough to keep him breathing.

He just needs to wait, and be patient. Let the thunder and rumble of the ghosts that cling to his skin rush across his widening veins and let it all out. Let it crash through the walls of his chest until it tires itself out, passes out. Never gone, never truly gone. Just asleep. For the moment. For now.

Patience yields focus.

If he can focus on being focused, he can focus on breathing.

_You can do this, Keith. You’ve done this before. Nothing new._

Some nights, in the aftermath of the nightmares, he can almost hear Shiro’s voice.

Some nights, when the blood had dried and the bodies are buried and the name of another person he’s failed is carved into his skin, like a tattoo, over the million others, over the infinite others — it’s almost enough.

 

∞

The body falls to its knees, first, and it’s science - physics - as the blaster wound in the chest is strong enough for it to take a step back but not forceful enough to push him on his back. The man’s eyes look shocked, for a moment, before they blank out and he topples to the ground.

The blaster is hot in Keith’s hand, and only the surprised cry from the woman on the ground reminds him that he’s still pointing at air, at nothing. He tells himself to lower the blaster, lower it and call for help—call for the others—except, there’s a dead body on the ground before him, and there’s the blaster shot in the wall behind him and he’s vowed, not to kill, not anymore, never again—vowed it against the inside of Shiro’s wrist—

Except, he turns his head and notes idly, like there’s not more blood on his hands — again — that the woman on the ground is an Imperial, a villager, not a soldier, and her skirt is barely hanging on and there’s a red welt across her face and she’s looking at him like he’s about to gun her down—

“Go,” he says. His voice doesn’t have the strength. The woman blinks, mouth still agape, her face still pale. Keith shouts, instead. “Go! Run!”

It takes her a second, a minute, a kriffing lifetime before her senses kick in - delayed reaction - and she’s struggling to her legs and she doesn’t care that her thighs are bare as a babe, her skirt’s ruined and there are tear tracks down her face and she whispers a quiet and rushed ‘thank you’ before she’s running away, limping, into the open streets of Nar Shaddaa — eternal, brightly-lit Nar Shaddaa, Coruscant’s criminal twin, underbelly of the Hutt network, one of the shittiest places in the entire galaxy, the planet that ate goodness and threw up cruelty — and he’s looking back at the dead man on his feet and he spies the military cut of his hair and the barcode on the skin on the back of his neck—

He had been a stormtrooper. A runaway. A deserter.

Except, he had been hurting people. He had been about to hurt one more. Keith had to stop him. Had to. No other choice. He _promised._ Keith promised Shiro. Keith promised him that the moment he made the choice to join Voltron in Rishi.

_“They’re gonna come after ya, kid,”_ The man had sneered, a too-tired mania in his eyes. Lost hope, lost faith. Lost the strength to see that there’s still kindness left in people, if you just looked hard enough. _“They’ll find ya. They always do and yer leadin’ yer friends to their deaths. No one escapes the Empire alive.”_

The growled words - bitter and spiteful and haunted - were thrown at him as the trooper pushed the woman against the wall, the shreds of her skirt hanging by the side of her bare legs and he’s in-between, and she’s been screaming for help for _hours_ and nobody gave a shit — a poodoo, a kriffing fuck — in this gods-forsaken city. “ _I ain’t dyin’ by myself, boy. I’m takin’ this galaxy with me. Nobody gets outta this alive.”_

What else could Keith do—how could he stand and watch as the trooper pounded deeper and deeper into the helpless woman, how he kept slamming her head against the wall to silence her screaming—what else can he do but raise his blaster and watch as the man noticed, turned away, dropped his victim to the ground and he’s facing Keith, trousers on the ground and his erection up and covered in _blood_ and just pull the trigger—

Keith feels the scream first, then hears it, as it tumbles — spills out in a cavalcade out of his throat — and he doesn’t realize it’s his own voice, his own angry, broken voice screaming back at him as he pulls the trigger over and over, the red laser fire bursting through the skull - the sternum - the groin over and over and over until the metal grows hot, until the cartridge sizzles out, until the crystal emitter breaks and his skin _burns_ with the heat and the pistol falls from his hands and he has to—he has to save her—has to make him feel her pain, make him taste justice, make him—

Then, there’s a hand on his, and it’s strong and big and secure and it grounds him and Keith lashes out, turning, fighting, because he has to save her, has to make sure _he’s_ wrong and that—

Shiro is the one holding his hand.

Shiro, a former Republic officer who defected from the splinters of the Empire in a bid to fight for what justice and liberty is left. Shiro, who crosses trenches and gunfire and renegade Y-wing fighters overhead to carry an Imperial mother’s son trapped in the middle of a battlefield, delivering him to her arms — alive and scared and shocked but _alive._ Shiro, who extends a hand to the wounded carrying the white flag of surrender. Shiro, who opened the comms link first instead of pulling the trigger, choosing to fight with his words before he fights with his guns. Shiro, who says ‘it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you’ to a too-scared, too-hungry broken soldier hiding in a cave in a small planet at the edge of a galaxy.

Shiro’s hands are on his, and he’s looking at Keith with worry and pain in his eyes, and his lips are moving, mouthing words that Keith can’t hear over the din of the blaster exhaust as the sound plays over and over in his head. The smell of seared flesh reaches Keith and he falls to his knees as he pukes, white-green splatter on the ground, amongst the broken pieces of too many innocents, too many lives he’s crushed.

There are hands on his cheeks, his face, and they’re bare and wiping the vomit away - not disgusted, not tearing away, not recoiling from the monstrosity - and Keith manages to trace taupe in the midst of the hazy shapes, in the blurriness of his vision and sound finally starts rushing back in—

“Breathe, Keith. Breathe, okay. In and out.” Shiro says, words soft and even and undeniable even in the bustle of Nar Shaddaa. Keith follows the track of Shiro’s lips, up and down, and he patterns his breathing after them, after the circular motion of Shiro’s thumbs on his cheeks, the slow nodding of Shiro’s head as Keith finally breathes in a semblance of normalcy—

“Good, just breathe with me, okay? You’re doing so well, Keith.” Shiro says again, his voice is a lifeline that Keith clings to with the force of a warp storm, squeezes Shiro’s hands in his tight — tight enough to hurt, tight enough to bruise, tight enough to remind Keith that he hasn’t lost Shiro, that Shiro’s still warm in his hands, that Shiro is still breathing with him—

“I’m sorry,” he bites out. Mouths. He doesn’t hear his own voice. The agony and regret that rush across Shiro’s face breaks the shards into smaller pieces. “Keith, baby, no—”

Keith’s lips part to repeat it, tries to justify what he’s done even if there’s no justification—he pulled the trigger, took another person’s life and even if it was shitty, even if that person was the most kriffing disgusting person in the galaxy, what _right_ did Keith have to take his life—? He wasn’t better than the Empire. He was nothing like Shiro. He was just a murderer pretending to be good. He wasn’t good for anything but cold-blooded murder—

“Hey, stay with me, okay?” Shiro pulls him out of the downward spiral his mind took, and Keith struggles to hold on to the line of Shiro’s voice, feels the hand on his cheek and against his hair and around his shoulder as he’s brought to his feet. He doesn’t have the energy, feels half his weight fall on Shiro’s, the other half just breaks apart as the trooper’s askew hand lingers in the peripheries of his vision. “Keith, look at me. C’mon, please? Look at me, Keith.”

His head turns, swivels, and he finds Shiro’s face in the too-bright, too-fogged, too-dark haze and there’s that look of relief in Shiro’s eyes. “Don’t look away, alright? Don’t look away.”

_“They’ll find ya. They always do and yer leadin’ yer friends to their deaths. No one escapes the Empire alive.”_ The trooper’s words echo, like a rattle in his head and Keith nods. He doesn’t look away from Shiro’s eyes, doesn’t look away even when he feels someone — Lance or Hunk — walk behind them and do something with the body. He doesn’t look away as Pidge stands by the open alley, and the woman — the one the trooper had raped — stands next to her and she’s repeating ‘thank you’ over and over.

Keith doesn’t look away. He won’t. He’ll prove the trooper wrong. He won’t be the cause of his friends’ — Shiro’s — death. He won’t.  He’ll prove them all wrong.

“Don’t look away, alright?” Shiro smiles at him, gentle at the edge, warm and open in the center. Keith swallows and _vows_ not to.

∞

Eriadu was a shitty place, Keith notes. He’s never been to the planet before, only heard about the atmosphere from the other pilots lurking in the shadows of cantinas, but he never really imagined it to be as kriffing nasty as this.

The sky was hazy - an orange fog-like quality to the atmosphere - and steel-lined, blocky factories as far as the eye can see belched inky-black smoke into the sky like hair strands. His eyes sting a bit at the acrid quality to the air and he tries not to inhale too deeply, his lungs complaining at the near lack of breathable air. How anyone could live here was beyond his own understanding.

Thace doesn’t look bothered at all, except Keith knows him too well, and he spies the irritated twitching of his ears, and the slight sharpening of his claws. Still, the Galran was faring a lot better than Keith and he’s honest enough with himself to be jealous. “Come on, our contact will meet us at the northwest apartment block fronting the hall.”

Keith gestured for the Galran to lead the way, wondering if he can find way to cover his nose and mouth without offending anyone. They needed to be unremarkable, inconspicuous — and they’ve already gathered enough attention as it is, partly due to Thace’s Galran features.

“Our job is to provide cover for our contacts, extract them from the planet and deposit them at the next.” Thace lists off quietly, Keith walking beside him, taking note of exit routes and dead ends in-between the lumpy, dilapidated looking factories and the never ending smog.

“Easy enough.” Keith surmises. Wished they could have found a better place, though. Preferably somewhere he could breathe without gagging. Thace grunts, hoisting the covered package — blaster rifle — across his shoulder closer.

They exit the streets and come upon an open plaza, a fountain bubbling in the center and a tall building across it — the City Hall. There are a few people about - a few humans, an _Ithoran_ of all people pushing a cart towards the western side of the plaza - nothing too conspicuous, or overly suspicious. Imperial presence wasn’t really strong on this side of the galaxy, but Keith can still make out stormtroopers standing guard by the City Hall. Granted, there were more local guards than stormtroopers.

He’s not sure if he should feel surprised, the Empire’s always cared less for those that couldn’t do anything for them. He sees a few peddlers selling food and notes the sickly, polluted quality to the skewered meat and shakes his head.

“Here,” Thace says and Keith nods at him, follows the Galran into one of the older looking buildings. It was a lot less littered than the outside, the orange skyline painting everything in amber. They approach a closed door and Keith hears voices inside, hears them quiet on their approach.

The Galran looks at him and Keith shrugs at him, hand on his blaster and the other out in the open, just in case he needs to use something. Thace doesn’t remove the rifle from his shoulder, settles with pushing his claws out as he raps the door with his knuckles.

“What do you want?” Comes the voice, in Basic, and something is oddly familiar about it. Keith looks to Thace and sees the Galran move his lips closer to the door and says, “Hope.”

Keith is still looking at Thace, at the odd look on his face, like he’s not sure what emotion to put on his face when the door opens. He turns, about to survey who their contact is — standard process —

Except the person the other end of the door is a face he hasn’t seen in years.

Lance stares back at him, just as shocked — wide-eyed and mouth parted open a bit — and Keith can’t help the flush of recognition and the painful throb of something lonely in his chest, even as shock cuts across his own face—

And, like a switch flicked, the shock disappears from Lance’s face as his eyes grow deathly cold and there’s a blaster pistol in Keith’s face—” _You!”_

“Lance—!” Thace is quick, manages to get one hand around Lance’s neck, the claws skittering above the skin where an artery lies, except Thace hasn’t really put his hand around Lance’s neck and Keith realizes the Galran is holding back—

“Let him go.” Comes another icy voice, and Keith half-turns and sees Pidge with a blaster trained at Thace’s head from behind. She flicks her eyes to his and they grow wide, for a moment, before the chill returns a thousand fold.

“ _Traitor!”_

The word is a knife - a bullet - in his chest and Keith reels back, the hand on his blaster falling short as two icy glares are thrown his way. “Pidge...Lance—”

The blaster in his face is trembling, and it’s not out of hurt but _rage._ “You have some fucking nerve to show your face here, _Imp._ ”

“Put the blaster down,” Thace says - evenly and calmly, in spite of the blaster against his head. Keith turns to him and eyes the hand almost around Lance’s neck, and Thace glares at him before he sighs and nods, slowly lowering his hand. “We have not pulled our weapons out. We do not wish to fight you.”

“Fuck your wishes,” Lance growls, not looking away from Keith. “I should fucking blow your head off for what you did.”

“Lance!” Pidge warns, her eyes still unkind, but not out of rage. Eyeing the situation out. Compromising. Thinking of the mission ahead.

“What?!” Lance’s voice hitches, and Keith feels another line cross over his chest on the things he’s done—the things he’s not finished paying the price for. “Don’t tell me you fucking forgot what he did to us, Pidge. What he did to _Shiro.”_

The name steals the breath away from Keith, and his fingernails bite so hard into his palm he feels blood—because, if Lance and Pidge are here and their contacts, then that would mean—Shiro.

“Lance—” He manages to get out, but Lance isn’t having it.

“Don’t wear my name out, Imp. Killing you right now would be too easy. You deserve to _burn._ ”

Thace bares his fangs, growling. “Be careful with your words, _boy._ ”

Lance lets out a laugh — ugly and derisive and unforgiving. “Be careful?! Me? Why don’t you tell trigger-happy Imp here about control, maybe he won’t blast fucking holes into his friend’s engine and almost _kill_ him!”

The reminder has Keith’s eyes closing as the scene plays out in his mind, over his eyes and in his ears with Lance’s voice slithering like a nail stabbing the same spot until it’s bleeding across his entire chest. It must look like weakness, like guilt, because Lance doesn’t stop.

“Yeah, Imp, you heard that? You didn’t kill Shiro. No, you fucking failed. You shitty, pathetic, useless piece of kriffing poodoo couldn’t kill a man who was your _best friend.”_

Keith bites his lip, reopens old wounds and doesn’t hear the warning growl from the Galran, or the repetitive way Pidge calls Lance name, telling him to calm down.

“Wanna know why, asshole? Because you’re a fucking _failure._ You’re useless and worthless, you and your Empire and you fucking think you can play with other people’s lives? You don’t get to fucking do that without paying the price, you monster.”

—and the vitriol, the utter disgust and hate, the well-deserved rage - the words ‘useless’ and ‘worthless’ and ‘monster’, all of it boils into lead down Keith’s arms and veins and hands and he can’t find it in him to stop the rush of rage, the bile that churns and targets on itself, as he glares at Lance and roars—

And the blaster goes off, and Keith feels the burn of the laser against his cheek for a moment. Everything is still — the rage and the ice and the lightning-arc of every ugly, bitter, toxic bile Keith’s tried to push down for so long — and he doesn’t really feel the cauterized burn on his lower cheek.

The tip of blaster barrel is smoking, and Lance doesn’t blink. “Give me a reason. Give me a reason to kill you, asshole. I _dare_ you.”

And the realization — that Lance was ready to do that, without a hint of hesitation — knocks out the fire in Keith’s chest and replaces it with the deathly chill of the realization that he’s destroyed everything past the point of repair.

He slowly takes a step back, and then another, and another and everything is dulled in his vision, blurred in his ears until he’s two, three meters away and he looks away, trying to breathe, trying to get air past the disgust and hate in his chest—

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but he hears Thace approach and he turns to look at the Galran, and the sober solemnity. Behind, Lance is still fuming, his eyes full of rage, but the gun is holstered against his hip, same with Pidge’s. He looks at her, and she glares back menacingly, but she doesn’t make for her pistol. Lance doesn’t even look at him.

Keith deserves that. The burn on his cheek starts to tingle — he deserves that, too.

“You said _no_ political involvement.” Keith bites into him, angry. “You _said_ that we’re not getting involved with the Empire _or_ the Rebels. You _lied_ to me.”

“Yes, I did.” Thace counters, unbothered by the rage in Keith’s voice. It sparks the flame into an inferno, but Thace cuts him short. “This is your chance to fix things, Keith. This is your chance to make up for what you’ve done.”

He loses his voice at that, at the honesty in Thace’s voice.

“The mission is still proceeding,” Thace tells him, voice flat and strict, “however, I will need you to be professional. Our contacts are...relatively hostile with us, and if we are doing this, I need to know you are not going to make a mistake.”

Lance must have heard it as he sneers. “ _He_ is a mistake, Galran.”

Thace doesn’t dignify the insult with a response, simply looks at Keith - and Keith looks back. Because saying yes - agreeing to the mission - would mean reopening wounds that have never really healed. Because saying yes would mean allowing himself to be the target of every mistake he’s made, the Empire’s made, back in his face. Because saying yes would mean everything he’s done to build himself back up from the edge of the cliff, after the crash of Shiro’s starship into the gunship, every inch he’s crawled forward, only to be pulled back down below in meters — all of it, the tears and the screaming and the bar fights and the unceasing, endless _loss_ — saying yes would mean throwing all that to the wind and undoing all the sutures and the gauzes and letting the mistakes flow out—

But—

Keith realizes—

Notes, with dry eyes and lips pursed into a set line—

Saying yes would mean fixing everything he’s fucked up, everything he’s broken, everything he’s destroyed, and he’s sure - totally sure - that saying yes might not mean much, might not fix much, but, at least, there’s that—

At least, he tried—

The barcode is gone from his wrist, burned out. Only an ugly scar of the desperation and the choices he’s made.

Even if it wasn’t much, even if it was miniscule, even if nobody cared for it — at least, Keith thinks, he’s done something.

He looks up at Thace, and nods.

∞

_Nobody makes it out of the Empire alive._

It was a trap.

That’s the only thing Keith thinks as he pulls the starfighter into a barrel, dodging the laser fire of the TIE fighters behind. It was just a simple delivery mission along the Perlemian Trade Route – nothing fancy for Voltron but it paid well. They had been running low on funding and, although Imperial control of the galaxy was still as strong as ever, they really can’t do anything about it if they don’t have the credits to fuel their own ships.

“Keith, four eyeballs on your flank. Watch out!” Lance’s voice floods his comm link, and Keith recalls saying something in response, pulling his fighter up in a roll, and he ignores the way his stomach jumps up and down, as the roll ends with the TIE fighters in front of him—

He breathes, pauses, and pulls the trigger. Red laser fire catches the rear flap of the wings of the eyeball on the left, and the explosion dulls out in outer space’s low gravity. His scope makes for the next one and he pulls the trigger again, the plume of shrapnel and electricity running out like fireworks as the TIE fighter skids and falls off his path.

He hears Lance cursing him – something along the lines of ‘fancy ass moves in his fancy ass pants’ – and Keith grins to himself, even when the increasing sense of worry has him shifting his eyes from the TIE fighters to the _Kerberos_ and Shiro. He can see the black-purple colors of the Z-95, watches as it circles about Pidge’s gunship and keeps the TIE bomber fleet from taking out her deflector shields.

“We’re getting creamed out here! Nobody said about an Imperial fleet!” Hunk’s voice is edging on panic, and Keith defects from his targeting and moves to assist him, raining a crimson barrage off the freighter’s tail. His ship was sturdier, but slower too and enough firepower could knock it out.

“You alright, there, big guy?” He pulls up and returns to chasing the TIE fighters scattered across the field, his radar blaring at every direction. He hears an affirmative from Hunk and kicks his thrusters up to half, flying close to Shiro’s quadrant, taking two bombers off him. “Thanks, Keith!”

The voice is grateful and proud and Keith can’t stop the grin from forming on his face as he barrels into a roll again, dodging fire on his ship now. The reminder pulls the frown away and he surveys the remaining TIE fighters as the rest of Voltron try to keep them at bay—

Three on Shiro’s, chasing him but not firing—

A swarm on Hunk’s end, crisscrossing across the field and causing the freighter to change direction every few seconds—

Lance being forced to fly further away as the TIE fighters blasted at him anytime he got close to the gunship—

Wait.

Stalling.

They were stalling them.

“Pidge!” He says, panic and apprehension powering his voice and blaring through the line. “Pidge! Hook me up to the hyper transceiver.”

Pidge’s voice is flustered. “What, _now?_ ”

Keith curses as laser fire scraps the paint off his wing. “Damn it, Pidge, _now!”_

“Fine! Establishing lines now—“ The rest disappears in a flurry of laser fire as Keith cuts his overhead thrusters and forces the fighter low, the barrage barely missing him. Gunfire echoes in his ears, followed by Shiro’s concerned voice.

“Keith, what’s going on?” The voice is even, tactical and it’s years’ worth of fighting ingrained into Shiro. Keith doesn’t answer, cutting to the right and blasting more TIE fighters off Hunk’s flank. “Soldier, report.”

He grunts, pulling up and rolling away again. “Fleet diversionary tactics. They’re stalling us!”

That could mean either one or two things – that the Empire means to wear them down and capture them or they plan to bring in the big guns and destroy them on the spot. He’s checking the hyperspace channels and nothing’s approaching them—yet.

Pidge returns to the comms line. “Okay, I got you in.”

“Good. Thanks.” Keith starts punching in coordinates into the comms line, still remembering his old call sign from almost a year ago. It’s something he can’t forget, no matter how much time passes by. With the limited capacity of his starfighter’s comms line – the by-product of using an older model – the radio’s only limited to him.

He presses the final digit, and the frequency distorts until he hears a militaristic, cold voice reporting.

“—dmiral Versio is awaiting our signal before the rest of the fleet will jump into lightspeed. Keep them distracted for now, but minimize fatalities. We have received word that their captain has vital information on the Rebellion network.”

“Affirmative, sir.” Came a pilot’s voice – one of the many in the field – and Keith feels the worry multiply as the words sink, and he’s checking Shiro’s flank. They’re talking about Shiro. “They don’t seem to be preparing to jump into lightspeed, either.”

The line cracks as the control officer returns. Keith takes a dive and tries to limit himself around Shiro’s flank, dodging fire. The other comms line is flashing – Shiro’s trying to contact him – but Keith doesn’t pull himself out of the line. No, there could be something here. Something more.

You don’t pull a fleet on a smuggler party – too wasteful of resources, better to hire other smugglers instead.

“They’re too spread out. Keep it that way. Regardless if they can make the jump to lightspeed, we’ll track them down. They have a deserter with them, officer. The clone-chip installed in ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven may no longer control them but we can still track them with it. We’ll wear them down if we have to.”

An affirmative grunt echoes in the line, and it’s the only sound Keith hears as the realization sinks in and the barcode in his wrist glares at him, burning and hot.

He—

He was the reason.

He was the mole, the unwitting mole in the team.

He was the reason why, in the last few jobs they’ve pulled, Voltron had been coming into contact with Imperial forces too frequently to be coincidental. They had thought their contacts had tipped them off, but it was impossible – not when their contacts were caught in the crossfire and killed – and even then, even on the rare missions given to them by the Rebel network, there were still holes—

Escort missions in supposedly remote locations that somehow have stormtrooper battalions patrolling the area.

Delivery jobs that forced them to use more guises and bribe more clearance officers just to avoid the sweep of Imperial forces, description of their features on holo-channels.

The fallout when Pidge can’t even go home because her face is up in lights, and going home meant putting her father and brother in danger, and it’s been almost a year since she last saw them, last _talked_ to them.

Go.

They should go. Now.

Quick.

“Just keep them steady, officer. Admiral Versio has confirmed that the capital ships are in position. It doesn’t matter what planet they escape to, every single one in this route has interceptor fleets and Destroyers ready to lock them down. We’ll be making the jump to your location, T-minus sixty seconds.”

“Fuck!” Keith growls as he skives through space, approaches the _Kerberos_ until laser fire runs before him and he curses again, barreling to the left. The barrage follows him, holding him off from reconnecting with the rest of the team.

Then, something large – something extremely large – is approaching their coordinates, and his radar is blaring and he can imagine the same in the rest of the ships and—fuck—that’s the Star Destroyer, isn’t it?

Not good. Not good.

All his comms lines are flashing, red and blue and yellow – the team’s trying to reach him – and all he needs to do is close the line to the Imperial frequency, but Keith can’t afford it. He needs to know. He needs to know their plans—has to find a way to jump around them. The line clicks as an Imperial pilot comes on line.

“Receiving transmission from the _Eviscerator_ , sir. Admiral Versio has ordered for extermination of Captain Takashi Shirogane.”

A disbelieving scoff follows the words. “What! We’ve almost got him! What the kriff is the admiral thin—fine. Damn it, fine. Use of lethal weaponry is authorized, officer.”

“Sir! The _Eviscerator_ is exiting lightspeed now—“

And Keith feels ice grow in between his fingers and over his heart as he changes course, rushing towards Shiro’s ship. No, he can’t lose him. Not like this. Never like this.

_Please, don’t let it be too late. Please, don’t take him from me._ Keith thinks – the thought _burns_ like Mustafar’s red rivers – and he sees the black-purple of Shiro’s Z-95, watches as it takes down more and more TIE fighters, like black lightning streaking across the field, gold-red engine fire in trailing lines.

Shiro was fast, could change course and targets on the split of a second, and had a level head. He was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield – but they’ve been fighting too long already, not just now, but in the last few days. They’ve had less and less sleep as the Empire seemed to gain ground and focus on _them_ , on capturing them—and Keith realizes why, and _how._

He’s the reason why it had to come to this.

The radar blares as something – the Star Destroyer – is exiting lightspeed. Keith makes the decision in a second, opening all channels and there’s a barrage of voices in his ears and he’s sure everyone could hear it, including the TIE fighters and the incoming _Eviscerator._ Even the name brings a chill to his heart – the flagship of Inferno Squad, the Empire’s death dealers with a hundred percent clearance rate.

“Keith’s back on the line, guys!”

“About fucking time, jerk. We need to get _out_ of here!”

He ignores Pidge and Lance and opens the line for Shiro. “Soldier, you had us worried there for a moment. Try not to do that again, alright?”

The line is spoken easily, but Keith can hear the magnitude of the concern below—and had he the chance, had he the _time_ and the opportunity, Keith would have wanted to tell him everything, would have allowed Shiro to pull the worry and the fears and the guilt and the ugly out of him, and Shiro _would_ have—

Shiro would have listened to every word out of Keith’s lips, every stretch of guilt in him, like he’s done before, like every time he’s told the captain of every person he’s killed, every boy he’s gunned down, every child he’s left orphaned and Shiro would tense, his eyes would flash fire and rage, and his hands would curl into fists but—

He’d wrap those hands around Keith’s shoulders – ever so soft, so _gentle_ – and pull him close, letting him breathe, letting Keith feel his own breathing, letting Keith bury his nose against Shiro’s neck in Naboo’s sunrise, until all he sees is bright-gold and rose-red and everything beautiful in his arms—

And tell him—

_That’s not who you are. That’s what they made you, turned you into. You killed, Keith. You murdered. But you didn’t want any of it. You can be better. You are better. I believe in you. I have faith in you._

The ring on Shiro’s hand would feel warm, hot and grounding against the skin of Keith’s face, against his cheek—

After this, after he makes this choice, there’ll be nothing left. No more sunrises on Naboo’s green-blue rivers, no more snow falling as they cruise through Alderaan’s verdant fields, no more of Corellia’s waters rushing against their legs as Shiro holds him close and talks about a future – their future – and no more rings on hands except the one on his and a reminder of everything he’s sacrificed for what was best—

No more of Lance’s sarcasm as they try to outrace the other, no more of Hunk’s prodding and pushing until Keith relents and they make their way down the local food stalls and no more of Pidge’s unwanted-but-not-really-unwanted tinkering of his starfighter and the excited gleam in her eyes as they adjust the thrusters and improve the blasters and Shiro’s proud, _affectionate_ smile at Keith in the center of Voltron, having carved a place for himself here—

“Soldier—what’s wrong?” Shiro comes. “Keith?”

_I’m sorry._ Keith thinks and blinks through the burn of his eyes at the unfairness of it, moving his blasters’ scope to Shiro’s.

Once, Shiro had talked to him about the Jedi – the Force, how they can manipulate the energy around them and make it do their bidding. To push rocks away, to deflect blaster fire, to read minds and send mental messages. Keith was skeptical – the Jedi were a myth in the Garrison’s walls – but Shiro had worked with one, during the Clone Wars, and Shiro never lies. The Force is real, he says, and it lives in us, all of us.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever believe in mystical mumbo jumbo, but for this moment, he _hopes. Keep him safe. Please._

And he hopes that this Force will, for once, listen to him and let his thoughts be known.

He pulls the trigger.

∞

“Lance?” Shiro says into the comms link attached to his ear. Beside him, Hunk keeps a wary eye on the other patrons of the cantina. They’re mostly workers, from the factories dotting Eriadu’s landscape, and although Imperial presence is on the lower side, they can’t take too many chances. There had been times, from before, where the missions with almost zero Imperial contact ended up contradicting, and the team barely making out without the entire battalions on their tail.

It had become more and more dangerous – fighting for the Rebellion had become more complicated, running on the fumes of risk than reward. It’d be too easy to give up.

The feel of the metal of his arm against his leg, beneath the glove, sobers him.

_No_ , Shiro thinks. He’s not giving up, not after what the Empire did to him. He has lost so much, lost his family in the firestorm, lost friends and good men under his command, their bodies still orbiting Coruscant, and he’s lost his arm and Keith—

Fuck. The name still hurts too much to think.

He doesn’t catch whatever Lance is saying and asks him to repeat it. There’s a sigh – an angry, pissed-off exhale followed by a curse – and it’s been a while since Lance had been this angry, since Perlemian. “Lance, what is it?”

“I have the _mercenaries_ with me,” Shiro doesn’t miss the forceful inflection on the word. He had been disapproving at the start, not comfortable with working with strangers and trust is something he no longer gives easily, but Bail Organa has yet to fail them – the Rebel network has yet to fail them – and Shiro hopes this won’t be another mistake in the making. “Just be ready, Shiro. You’re not gonna like this.”

Before he could ask Lance about it, the line cuts and he frowns at Hunk. The burly ex-smuggler shrugs at Shiro’s gaze and resumes his surveillance of the cantina. Lance didn’t say anything about Pidge, and he would have, had something gone wrong. He’s been hoping that this wasn’t a trap. He can’t take too many of those, not anymore.

The last had cost him almost everything. His right hand curls into a fist and he breathes deep.

“They’re here.” Hunk says, and Shiro looks up, following his gaze.

It’s Lance that Shiro notices first – he doesn’t strut, like his usual, but stalks forward. Rage is radiating off him in tangible waves, and the patrons of the cantina seem to unconsciously make way for him, the look on his face thunderous as he spots Shiro. There’s no smile there.

Shiro stands, concerned. It’s not like Lance to be this angry – he hasn’t been this volatile in months. He glances behind the other and spies a tall figure, humanoid, purple-skinned and solemn yellow eyes. A Galra? That was…rare. The Galra were nomadic, didn’t really interact with other species that much. Still, it doesn’t really explain Lance’s behavior.

Pidge’s chestnut hair comes into his vision, and there’s something calculating and cold in her eyes as she looks at Shiro. She shrugs with a shoulder, like she has no idea what’s happening and the alarms ring in Shiro’s mind. Except, Pidge doesn’t seem to be held against her will, her arms crossed over her chest, and her blaster holstered to the side of her arm.

Lance pulls the stool out and sits on it, slams his arm on the table and glares at it, willing for the metal to burn in his gaze.

“Lance, what’s with you?” Hunk asks, confused. Lance mutters something under his breath, and he doesn’t miss the sneer on his face – the one he reserves for Imperial officers – as he gestures behind him with his chin. “See for yourself, captain.”

Shiro frowns, his hand resting on his belt, not gripping the blaster but not out of hand for when, and not if, he needs it. He frowns and slowly looks over the others in the cantina’s odd lights, the tall form of the Galran, Pidge standing to the side, and a cloaked figure hidden in the shadows and, as if noticing, the figure looks up, dark hair and purple eyes and a scar across his cheek—

And Shiro feels the breath stolen from his chest, and his knees tremble with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground.

The purple eyes widen, a fraction, and Shiro sees surprise and shock and recognition and something hard, and ugly and afraid cloud them – hasn’t seen it in so long, could only remember seeing it once, in a cave in Rishi. The head ducks, hair covering his eyes and Shiro feels the world under him disappear. His gravity collapses and Shiro has to breathe through gritted teeth to get the air past the ice and the stone in his chest.

It’s not difficult, Shiro thinks, realizing who is lurking the shadows behind Lance and the Galran, by the pillars of the oddly-lit cantina. It’s not difficult at all – if he can get past the rushing memories of laser-fire and binary sunsets and Corellia’s relentless waves, all swept under purple-gleamed eyes and a soft kiss against his lips – and if Shiro can swallow his tattered pride and the ice in his heart, he can almost forget the burn of where his arm used to be, forget the moment he turned his head and found himself in the crosshairs of Keith’s blaster fire.

Almost.

It’s not difficult, Shiro realizes, as Keith slowly makes his way towards them, slithering in like an unwanted ghost.

It’s unbearable.

∞

It was the movement of rubble that alerted Shiro, and he raised a hand, gesturing with two fingers. Pidge and Hunk nod, readying their rifles, and moving to flank the cave’s entrance. Shiro turned to Lance and nodded, stepping forward into the grotto. Lance takes position by his side and Shiro takes even, calm steps inside.

More stones are moved, and he hears the hitch of a breath and, beside him, Lance raises his pistol and bellows in a clear voice. “Identify yourself.”

There’s another hitch, something echoes like a sob, and Shiro glances at Lance and the rest, sees the confusion lurking in between the wariness. Lance doesn’t move forward, but keeps the rifle trained in the dark. Shiro can’t make out the features on his face, but it’s certainly humanoid, and it seems to be clutching something in his hand. The rain outside was making it difficult to see through, the lack of light not helping.

Average stature. Lean build. That’s what he can make out. At least there’s that.

“Identify yourself.” Lance asks again, voice direct. The serious, almost caustic tone causes the figure to tense and push itself further into the wall. Problem is, from what Shiro could make out, there’s no more room to run to. It was a dead end.

He raises a hand and orders the team’s weapons down.

Lance looks him in the eye for a moment before nodding, lowering the barrel to point at the wet earth. Pidge and Hunk follow suit, and Shiro holsters his blaster. He raises his hands to the height of his eyes, and lowers the tone of his voice.

“Hey, we’re not going to hurt you. I promise.” He calls out, and he hears his own voice echoing back. The figure tenses, and Shiro can make out pale skin and unruly dark hair. It seems to be clothed in tatters, the remnants of what seems to be a uniform by its waist. “Can you speak Basic? Let’s talk, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, alright. I promise you.”

It takes forever – not really – and it takes Shiro repeating the same thing, _I’m not going to hurt you, I promise_ , until the figure stops tensing and slowly inches its way until the sparse light seeps into the shadows. The figure is male, human, from what Shiro could note. His arms are bare and littered with scars, and his figure is thin – too thin – and the lips are chapped. Mud and earth is dry on his cheek and on his neck and some of the wounds look to be infected.

Shiro could give him a few days, at most, before the man succumbs to his wounds and die.

The item in his hands is a blaster rifle – E-11, BlasTech, Imperial standard-issue – and, Shiro notes, the cartridge is shot. The man is clinging to it like a lifeline, though, even if it can’t shoot.

“Good. I’m not going to hurt you, alright? You just need medical help. We can help you. I can help you. Would you like that?” His hands are still in the air, and he watches the man step further into the light, and the life – the innate drive to live, the need to survive – in the mauve eyes steal Shiro’s breath away.

∞

The noise of the cantina is blown out – deafened – as Keith raises his head and looks into taupe eyes. Eyes he hasn’t seen in _years_ , eyes he hasn’t allowed himself to dream in every suffocating night, not without the burn of an ale – of alcohol – in his veins, because it’s the only way he could get through it in the morning without falling apart. Eyes that he could still recall with a vividness that bordered on blinding, the color of dark silver, stormy skies reflected on rippling water, gold flecks against the russet-grey. Eyes that glowed gold in the light that catches at dawn, when the nearest star’s glow seeps in through the windows of the _Kerberos_ , and Keith is mesmerized by them, even when Shiro smiles and kisses him in greeting.

He sees the shock and recognition reflected in them, sees it paint the taupe in a haze of agony so strong, so powerful that Keith takes a step back, into the shadows, and his hand clutches at the pendant under his shirt.

“Shiro,” the name escapes his lips without his authority, and it bites his tongue and leaves glass shards and shrapnel in his throat. Hearing his voice must have done something to Shiro, because the shock in those taupe eyes disappear and is replaced by utter disdain and ice so strong, so biting, that Keith gasps.

“ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven,” Shiro responds, frigid, and—

Gravity escapes Keith’s hold, slips from under his feet and he falls into outer space as the call sign is thrown back at his face. It’s an attack, a reprisal against him, and it feels like all the walls, the inches that he’s managed to crawl past are stripped bare and naked, open and bleeding and—

Keith’s never realized how _gentle_ , how loving Shiro had spoken his name, how tender it was pronounced, how Shiro kept using it, over and over, to drive a point home. That Keith had a name. That he was more than a faceless soldier and murderer. That he could be better, was better.

The cold, deathly cold way Shiro says his call-sign blows out any ember of hope in his chest. Keith ducks, hides his face under his hair so no one could see the utter devastation in them.

_This is the price. This is what it means to save him._

“ZX-eight-four—? Keith?” Hunk asks, disbelievingly. Lance says something that has the sound of a stool falling over and suddenly a hand is on his cloak and pushing him against the wall. Hunk looks downright murderous.

“You _asshole—“_

_“Hunk, enough!”_ Shiro’s voice cuts through air and noise, and some of the surrounding patrons turn to them, eyeing them in suspicion. Hunk pauses, still glaring daggers at Keith, before he grudgingly lets go of the cloak, pushes Keith into the pillar, and steps back.

The patrons take a while to return to their business, and they’re lucky there aren’t any stormtroopers around. Keith finds he’s able to breathe again, pulling the hood over his face and standing behind Thace and in his shadow.

He can’t look into Shiro’s cold eyes.

“What’s he doing here?” Shiro begins, no emotion in his voice other than the coldness in it. Keith doesn’t answer, bites his lip and tries not to surrender himself to the need to run into Shiro’s arms, sob into his chest until all his apologies are tattooed on his skin.

The Galran turns to the captain, and his voice remains just as even – just as professional and cold – but Keith can make out the anger in them. “He is _my_ subordinate.”

It’s not like Thace doesn’t know – about Keith, and Shiro and Voltron. It’s not like the Galran hasn’t been on the receiving of too many drunken tirades, too many nights he’s spent sobbing and aching for a ghost of what’s no longer there. It’s not like Thace doesn’t know the lengths he’ll go to in an attempt to make up for all the wrongs he’s done, the sacrifices he’s had to make, all the stains in his soul twisting it into something ugly and undesirable and wrought with so much kriffing shit—

“Your _subordinate_ used to be part of _our_ team, until he open fired on his teammate and betrayed us.” Pidge retorts, unforgivingly.

“You can’t expect us to trust him, _or you,_ ” Hunk begins, “after what he’s done.”

Thace doesn’t answer, and Keith watches the Galran do something he never expected him to—

He steps close to the team, to Shiro, and he pulls at his jacket until he can show the forearm where—

It’s the burn marks where the Imperial inquisitors had strapped red-hot chains to hold Thace back and forced him to watch as stormtroopers murdered every member of his clan, his family, his wife and daughter—

Where the Imperial insignia is permanent mark, a title and a reminder of what the Empire’s done and what they need to do to stop them, and it is distinct against the purple skin—

Thace raises his head and looks straight at Shiro. “I have lost so much. I will not allow them to get away with it. You and I fight the same battle in this war, brother.”

Shiro glares back at him, his eyes cloudy with turbulent emotions.  Keith doesn’t make a sound, knows that there’s nothing he can say or do to make the team trust them. It has to be Thace – he’s the only one without innocent blood on his hands. Keith’s far too soiled for anything too good like trust.

The Galran doesn’t flinch from the storm in Shiro’s eyes. “We can distrust and sabotage each other, let the past tear us apart, but know that only _they_ will win if we do. I know not of your drive, brother, but I will not allow them a single moment of victory, not when my blood is still warm and my heart is still beating and the slain bodies of my kinsmen, my wife and my daughter still call for justice. They have taken too much from me.”

And Thace pulls the arm of the jacket down and steps back, until his shoulder hits Keith’s and they’re standing side by side, one across the other. The Galran doesn’t break eye-contact with Shiro and repeats. “They have taken too much _–_ our dignity, our pride, our future. They have taken too much from _us_.”

And Keith is staggered by the word ‘us’, by the inclusion – dignity, pride and future – and Shiro shifts his gaze from Thace to Keith and he’s glued to the spot, frozen by the intensity of that gaze. It’s not warm, not the way Shiro looks at him in the shadows of his home in Theed, where the moon cuts through the windows and sets the taupe into ochre. It’s not the tumbling pride in Shiro’s eyes when Keith makes it out of his first dogfight without a scratch.

It’s piercing, breaks through his shields and deconstructs all of him until he’s bare before Shiro.

“One question.” Keith takes a moment to nod, to do anything in _Shiro’s_ crosshairs. The tension is seeping off in waves, and Shiro’s voice is too emotionless, too flat for it to be anything but genuine. Keith knows, _knows it well_ because he’s ingrained every moment, every information and knowledge of Shiro and who he is – the way his nose scrunches when he tries to lie, or the way his eyes shift when he’s embarrassed – and those are the few, very few things he has left to hold on to. “Was it worth it?”

_Was it worth it?_

He’s expected the question, has played the scene too many times in his head to count, has imagined ways the question would come, how Keith would answer, if there are answers that would explain enough – justify enough – tell Shiro enough that he had to. He had to.

Was it worth it? Were the too-lonely nights, the nightmares that plague him constantly, the guilt and regret just simmering beneath the surface, the incessant desire and need to absolve himself in a pyre of his own guilt, all the times he’s gotten drunk just to stave off the aching in his heart like the galaxy set afire and he’s this close to drowning, all the times he’s barreled into a blaster’s scope and almost stopped, almost let it kill him, just to get it off his chest, just to get some kriffing peace—

All of it, just for Shiro, to be alive, to breathe, to live. Just for Shiro to stand before him, tangible and angry and hurt and betrayed but _alive_ . Alive. _Alive._

“Yes.” Keith answers, does not flinch from Shiro’s eyes – even when the pain in them threatened to destroy everything that made him who he was.

“I see.” Shiro responds, voice quiet, and—

Keith may have won this battle, but he’s already lost the war.

∞

“Soldier? Keith? You there?” Shiro prods into the comms link, eyeing the blanket of asteroids before them. There’s no movement, except for the slow twisting of the gigantic rocks, the light catching on fragments of minerals blown off from laser fire. Lance and Hunk were already docking in the _Kerberos_ , and Shiro slows his fighter down, still within sight of the gunship as he tries the comms link again.

“Soldier, status report. Keith? Are you there?”

There’s no response, none at all. The worry is starting to grow, the line slowly climbing up his throat. Was it too soon? Was Keith not ready? He’s been doing so well, faster than anyone he’s ever seen – faster than Shiro himself and he had no doubt, that one day, Keith will surpass him in piloting – and he had been _beautiful_ and _awe-inspiring_ in the battle with the pirates, evading blaster fire like a leaf in the wind cutting through a forest, drawing circles and barreling around like the fabled angels of Iego and—Gods, maybe that was what Keith was—an angel.

Bright and blinding, flying with the full force of a newborn star and blazing with the intensity of all of the galaxy’s suns.

Except, there’s no response, no attempt at communication—

And Shiro’s heart is in his throat—Keith can’t be gone, he was too good, too bright—

A scream of exhilaration and excitement, a thunderous roar of victory that melts all the ice from his heart in a half-second and ties Shiro back to reality, blared in his comms link and, with a clap that echoed in all space, Keith’s starfighter flies through the asteroid field – amber-crimson fumes like a trailing star, unable to catch up to the golden-glimmer of Keith hurtling like a comet—

“That was fucking _awesome!_ ” Keith blows into the line, and a hitch and a crack runs through his voice, and Shiro can’t do anything but close his eyes, lean his head against the seat’s rest and just breathe in relief, in the way his heart stops galloping and just aligns itself back in his chest. Fucking kid will be the death of him.

And he wouldn’t want it any other way, Shiro realizes, as Keith’s starfighter rushes past him and he kicks the engines of his alive, opens the thrusters and tries to reach towards Keith – his own north star – hurtling home.

Keith’s still gasping and breathing loudly and laughing ecstatically when he lands his starfighter in the _Kerberos’_ hangar, and he’s out of it by the time Shiro manages to park his own beside Lance’s and Hunk’s. The two other pilots are nowhere to be seen, probably already in the cockpit or in the hold—

And Shiro’s removing the buckles and jumping out of the fighter and Keith’s running to him, all wide mauve eyes and unruly hair stuck to his skin through sweat and energy running up his body and arms and he’s grinning wide, blinding, at Shiro –

“Did you _see_ me out there? I was _amazing_ , Shiro! Fuck, you were amazing and we were—we were just so amazing!” He blurts out – shouts, actually – and his voice is echoing in the hangar and in Shiro’s heart and chest and he’s just so full of fucking—affection and fondness for the bright-eyed pilot and what he’s become, a long way from that cave in Rishi and just—

He staggers into Keith’s space and Keith’s smiling so wide at him, and, _gods,_ he’s so beautiful—

Shiro grabs the sides of Keith’s face as gently as he can and he shouldn’t, he’s not supposed to, it’ll mess things up if it goes wrong, but fuck, he wants to be selfish, he wants to taste perfection, wants to feel the force of a burning star in his face—

—and the look of realization in Keith’s eyes turn them dark and hot and—

Shiro kisses him, deep and thorough. The sound of surprise in Keith’s lips are swallowed in between Shiro’s lips and he presses deeper into Keith, one hand finding rest on the small of Keith’s back, and arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close—

He moves his lips and Keith parts under him, and his _tongue—_

Shiro feels him tremble under and he holds him closer, closer – tighter and far nearer than anyone else – until it’s as close as he can get to twining their bodies until their ends meet in a miasma and he can no longer where he or Keith ended or began—

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?” He manages to get out, in the minute spaces when their lips part, and Keith looks up at him, wide-eyed purple under dark hair and they’re alight with a teasing remark and something deep, and fervid and capable of drowning Shiro in heat—

A corner of his lips curl up in a rebellious smile. “No promises, cap.”

“Brat.” Shiro blurts out and Keith guffaws, good-natured and cheeks red.

“ _Your_ amazing brat, sir.” And, gods, just the way Keith says those words – voices the appellation in that breath and in that tone – has Shiro shivering instead, and he’s definitely aware of the press of their fronts, of his hand on Keith’s back and, kriff, his hand could feel across the entire expanse of his back and the other could cover Keith’s face—

And despite being smaller than Shiro, he burned brighter and fiercer than any supernova.

“I guess so,” he says just before leaning back down, gravity pulling him back to Keith’s lips – and Shiro doesn’t think about how awfully honest he sounds and the awful-but-not-awful thing about it is that it doesn’t sound awful at all.

∞

The mission is simple, or maybe it’s just the way Pidge lays out the game plan. In the City Hall’s archives are personnel logs for Imperial weapons production. The Rebel network attests that the Empire was building a superweapon – Shiro’s heard about it, between jobs and missions where he had to blend within Empire-controlled planets – and that the engineers involved are in the personnel logs in Eriadu. The mission, to put it simply, was to extract the logs and deliver it to the Rebel’s headquarters in Yavin IV.

“The moment we break into the archives, it’s going to set the alarm off.” Pidge says, adjusting her glasses. The blue of the hologram turns them purple. “If the alarm system was limited to the City Hall, we’d manage to get out on time.”

“It’s not?” Lance asks, arms crossed. He’s standing off to the side, a wide berth from Thace and Keith – and when Shiro takes a subtle glance around, the rest of Voltron were keeping the two others at more than an arm’s length, even himself.

He tries not to think about it too much and returns to listening in. “Nope. The alarm system is wired to the City Hall and the nearby Imperial barracks. The moment we trip the wire, every stormtrooper is on us.”

“Then we take both down,” Shiro cuts in and points to two different locations. “The alarm module is located north-east of the City Hall, a few blocks from the barracks. It’s also near the hangar where the _Kerberos_ is. We send a team to disable the alarm module while the rest assaults the archive and gets the personnel log. Once the alarm is disabled, make way to the hangar and prepare the gunship. The moment we retrieve the log, we escape and jump into lightspeed.”

Pidge nods, and Shiro looks around, seeing Lance and Hunk twist their lips and agree. Shiro turns to Thace and Keith—or, he tries to. He can’t look at Keith in the eye, not after what he said in the cantina.

Thace looks back at him and nods. Keith’s face is hidden under his hair and the shadows under his hood. Shiro ignores the ugly bile in his throat and starts plotting the rosters, already anticipating the clamor. “Good. Pidge, Hunk and Thace – you take out the alarm system. Lance and Keith, you’re with me. We’re getting the personnel log.”

Lance is the first. “What? You want me to work with _him_?”

“Absolutely not, Shiro. You don’t even know how the personnel log _looks_ like—“Pidge follows.

Hunk opens his mouth to complain but Shiro silences them. “This is an order, men!”

He ignores the angry gazes, especially from Lance and Pidge, and tries not to notice the way Keith has tensed, or the stone-still silence from him. “Pidge, you can hack any system faster than we can. We need that module down as soon as possible and I can’t waste you looking for the personnel log when we can do it. Download the schematics of it into our holo, if you must, but you should stand by the alarm.”

He turns to the Galran and Hunk and glares at them. “I don’t need to stress how important it is to have the alarm down, _but_ I will not accept casualties in this mission. Protect each other. Galran, I hope you were not bluffing about your honor.”

Thace bares his fangs at Shiro, insulted. “I would rather die than stain my honor with betrayal.”

Betrayal. The word carves itself too deep into Shiro’s chest and his eyes shift to Keith’s without his consent. He had said it was worth it. That the burning pain of his arm as he hits the side of the _Kerberos_ was worth it. That waking up after a three-week coma in a makeshift medical bay on the moon of Yavin and feeling the emptiness of where his arm and his heart is was worth it. That every nightmare he’s had to face and every beat of his chest where the emptiness burns was all worth it. Shiro can’t look at him.

He can’t, otherwise he’ll drown in a flood of his own despair.

“Lance, Keith – on me. This is a mission. I expect no back talk and no arguing.”

Lance bristles, but crosses his arms, glaring at Keith. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be nice.”

“No, you don’t have to be nice,” Shiro says, and turns to Keith and looks at his hair instead of his eyes, “and when this mission is over, I never want to see you again.”

It’s not—

Fuck.

It’s not what he meant to say. It’s not. Shiro realizes. It’s not what he wanted to say. He wanted to say—

What?

_And when this mission is over, you and I are going to talk._

_And when this mission is over, I want to know what went wrong._

_And when this mission is over, I want to know if I was enough._

_And when this mission is over, I want to know what the Empire did to you that turned you into this._

Except—

The ice and stone around his heart is too strong, and he just wants—just wants to make Keith feel a fraction of how painful it was, waking up without him by Shiro’s side. Just to make him feel a bit of the utter desolation and loss as Pidge plays the recording over and over—

_For the Empire. For the Emperor._

Just to make him feel a bit of the grief that has kept him awake in the last year—

Keith stills, and the entire space between them grows tangible and cold, and he nods.

Shiro made him feel it, feel a bit of the pain.

Then—

Why isn’t the ache in his chest stopping? Why doesn’t he feel better?

∞

Keith doesn’t know what time it is – how long it’s been. Time operates differently when you’re kept in utter darkness and your only companion is the interrogation droid that shifts between shocking and prodding you with needles and blades. Time slows and hastens between the shocks inflicted by the electro-cell he’s in. Time seems to stop in the moment he’s awake and in a pool of his own piss, and it seemed to leap when the officers of the Imperial Security Bureau come into ask their questions ‘nicely’.

He doesn’t know where Voltron is – where the rest of the team are. He knows they made for lightspeed after Keith shot Shiro’s engines, and the only consolation was that they all made it out. Without him.

Without him—

And they could escape without the Empire trailing at their heels, the planted clone-chip in an unwitting Keith no longer bearing a flag to their whereabouts.

It’s the only consolation.

“ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven has proven to be resistant to our mind-altering injections.” He hears the voice echoing around his ears, his vision hazy, and his entire body afire with pain. The muscles of his arms burn, still chained to the wall and forced to hang, and he can’t even cover his naked body, can’t even do anything but blink at the scars and the burns and, gods, they started burning his skin already—“He’s refused to disclose Takashi Shirogane’s location or the reason for his betrayal of the Rebel network, or for deserting the Imperial army.”

“What about the clone-chip? Though its interface no longer works, perhaps we can still glean information as to the whereabouts of Takashi Shirogane and the Rebel headquarters from it. During the Clone Wars, we were able to record dialogue through the chip and the host’s system.”

Keith blinks slowly, tiredly, and—he can’t hold it back—

He’s been holding it back for so long and his bladder was killing him and—

He feels warmth run between his legs, catching on his wounds and it stings, but the relief, oh gods, the relief—

Even if he feels the tears sting his eyes, and his lips crack around a name, and he’s lying there, face pressed against the ground as his own urine meets his lips and the yellow mixes in a tang of scarlet.

“We will need to extract the chip from the body for it to be viable. We are lucky that the prisoner’s barcode is on his wrist, it will not take long to extract the chip under it and the damage won’t be extensive.”

A sound of dismissal follows the line as Keith tastes saline against his lips and he turns his head, let the saliva drip from his lips, ignores the stench of his own fluids sticking against his battered skin. “The prisoner is immaterial. Once we have the clone-chip, you may exterminate him.”

He closes his eyes and lets exhaustion carry him to a place inhabited only by Shiro’s smile.

∞

It was a mess. Even with the minimal presence of stormtroopers, the City Hall’s guards were proving to be more of an obstruction than a challenge. Shiro ducks down and rams his shoulder into an Eriadu guard’s chest, using the dull end of his blaster and striking the man on the head. He falls to the ground, unconscious.

Lance punched one across the face and pulled his head down, ramming his knee up the chin. Shiro tries not to, but he can’t ignore the whip of Keith’s cloak, as he skirts around the shadows, whirling about and slamming heads into walls and ramming elbows into noses.

He’s grown smaller, thinner – Shiro doesn’t know if that’s true or it’s because Keith’s in a cloak that hides more of him. His face is half-hidden in shadow, half-hidden in his hair and Shiro sees more of his mouth set in a grim line than his eyes as he raises a hand to pull the hood lower.

He hasn’t said a thing since they rolled the mission out, choosing to slink in the shadows by the sides and waiting for orders. Like a soldier. Shiro bites his tongue before the bile could reach it.

“Clear,” Lance says, looking around. All seven guards are down. Shiro took one down, Lance two and Keith four. He doesn’t know what to make of it – how fighting with one hand was more challenging than it should be, even when the prosthesis was functional, it still didn’t feel right.

Keith nods at him and turns away, and the dim light of the hall and the blacked-out frames of the security cameras leant him more in shadows. There’s nothing of the burning star Shiro remembers with an ache so hard, so terrible, he claws at his own chest in a desperation to get rid of it.

Keith’s more shadow than man, a dead star in a graveyard of immobile asteroids. Blown-out. Burnt. Shiro tastes ashes in his mouth and he has to look away and continue before he falls to his knees.

They make it to the archive with no challenges, save for the hallway, and the holoterminals lining the walls are set to low-power. Only the eerie-blue against the darkness before them.

“Main terminal, passcode is eight-zero-four-six.” Shiro commands, pointing to the terminal on the far end of the wall. The three make their way forward, and Shiro hopes that Pidge and the rest were doing okay on their end. So far, there have been no stormtroopers running their way yet – and no news is good news, as good as they can get.

Lance activates the terminal and enters the pass code. The terminal beeps pleasantly once the code is entered. “What’s the name of the file?”

“Imperial Planetary Ore Extractor.” Lance nods at Shiro’s response, kneeling by the terminal as he searched for the log. It’s not the real name of the weapon, obviously. Had the Empire called it for what it was, an entire galaxy would be on their doorstep. It’s hard to start a rebellion when the Empire smiled at you and promised you gifts.

Shiro stands behind him, eye on the door and on the other terminals. Keith does the same, and he blends into the darkness, the blue light of the terminal catching on his eyes—

Keith turns to him and their eyes connect and he’s just—

Just the freighter-weight of how much he misses Keith, how the emptiness of his right arm couldn’t compare to the hollow, the shape of a bright-eyed angel, in his chest when he opens his eyes and sees the white of the infirmary and the faces of the team when he asks them where Keith is—

_Why?_ He wants to ask, wants to shake out of those hooded eyes. _Why? What broke? What destroyed us? What made you into this shadow?_

And maybe a part of it seeps into his face, because Keith’s eyes widen and his lips part and just—

The darkness in those eyes disappear for a moment, the frown lines wither and the haunted aura that clung to Keith seemed to grow fainter—

Keith mouths his lips, looking for words and Shiro—

He take a step forward, opening his arms a bit, willing to be open, willing Keith to be open with him, to answer him—

“Got it!” Lance exclaims, and there’s the sound of the terminal downloading the files into an access disk. The moment dies, and Shiro watches Keith rebuild his walls, ducking down to hide his eyes.

It feels like falling off a cliff, the disappointment.

He doesn’t get a chance to simmer in it, though, as a surprised voice cuts into the room. “Hey, what are you—“

They face the door, where an Eriadu native stood in surprise, hands by his head as he looks at all of them in shock. Shiro turns to Lance and finds the other finished with downloading the file. Keith whips forward, his cloak flapping like wings and Shiro finds himself calling the other’s name as Keith grips the surprised man by the neck and presses him against the wall.

“Keith, let him go.” Shiro orders and watches, in growing horror, as Keith draws his blaster with his other hand presses it against the man’s head.

“He could tip the Empire off, Shiro.” Keith reasons, voice flat. Shiro stalks towards him, but Lance makes it first, gun aimed at Keith’s back.

“Kriff, a man comes in and you decide to murder him on the spot?” Lance’s voice mocking, contemptuous. Shiro glares at him before turning back to Keith.

“Keith, let him go.”

The other turns to him, eyes hidden, lips in a grimace. “He’s a liability. He knows we’ve been here, and the moment he wakes up, the Empire’s going to be all over this place and they’ll know what we’ve been looking for. It’s too risky. He can’t be allowed to live.”

Shiro feels like he’s been shot in the chest.

_Keith, what happened to you? What broke you?_

“You don’t get to choose that, asshole.” Lance powers, still not lowering his rifle. “You don’t get to choose who lives or dies, especially when it comes to innocent people.”

Keith bares his teeth at Lance, hand tightening around the man’s neck as he tries to call for help. The cry is cut short in a choking fit. “Your mission is more important than one life.”

Then, Keith turns to Shiro and the light in his eyes are burning. “You believe in this Rebellion, that it can fix this galaxy, make it better. What is one life, Shiro, in exchange for all that?”

“Everything, Keith.” He answers, and it’s both the man in question and for something else, something irreparable between them. “Sometimes, one life is enough to change everything.”

Maybe it’s enough, the withdrawn but still beating belief under all the pain.

Maybe it’s enough for the words to get through to Keith.

He wants it to be enough. _Please, let it be enough._

Shiro bites his tongue enough to bleed. Please. _Please._ Keith can’t be this gone, this damaged. Let something recognizable remain in him.

Keith stares at him, for a long moment, and the man under his grasp has stopped crying out, just trying to breathe instead—

And Keith lets him go, stepping back as he falls to his knees and starts coughing. The man – human – tries to coax air into his lungs and Shiro breathes in relief, like – somehow – he’s managed to get through and past the air-tight walls around Keith. The relief tastes like hope.

Lance still has gun up, but he moves forward to help the Eriadu up, ignores Keith standing to the side with his head down. It’s a…lonely image, and Shiro can feel the ice around his heart starting to splinter and break apart, and he notices the way Keith curls into himself, trying to make himself smaller – unnoticeable, shadowed – and more of the shards break away.

“You’re—“a cough, and the Eriadu leans a bit on Lance. “You’re with the Rebellion?”

They discover, in a moment, that the Eriadu is one of the many refugees in Imperial-controlled worlds, captured and sent to Eriadu to work in the factories, manufacturing weaponry and armor for the Imperial navy on this side of the galaxy. It’s the same story, Shiro’s heard – and he tries not to let the cynicism get to him – as the man—Gueros—recounts his tale.

“Please don’t leave me here. I’m not one of them, I swear.” Gueros raises his hands to them, beseeching. “Please, I have a friend – in the Rebellion – please, his name is Cassian. Cassian Andor. You know him, right?”

Shiro stills, the name pulling up an image of a fellow Rebel. He looks to Lance, his brows set in a furrow. “We need to go, Shiro. We’re late enough as it is.”

Then, unbidden, he turns to Keith. The other stares back at him, face clouded. “It’s up to you, Shiro.”

And his eyes— _I have faith in you._

“Okay,” Shiro turns back to the defector. “Okay. Lead us to the hangar.”

The man nods, briskly, and Lance gestures with his chin, following him. Shiro readies his rifle and walks after them, turning a bit to Keith—still standing to the side, a lone figure in a backdrop of black.

“Keith…” He calls out, and it’s not his fault how his voice breaks and just goes _soft._

Keith looks up at him, and his eyes are confused – lost – and, kriff, Shiro wants to reach out to him, wrap him in his arms and never let go.

It’s painful – the reminder of what he can no longer have standing a few feet from him – but they have a mission. After, he promises himself. After.

“We need to go.” He says, and Keith blinks, nodding.

“Sorry.” The word is whispered, tight with emotion.

Shiro feels it’s not just about the mission.

∞

He’s running, bare feet on the metal ground, and he’s shirtless and he pants around his waist are too big for him but he doesn’t care.

He needs to get out.

He has to.

Keith cradles his hand to his chest, still throbbing from when he slammed the heel of his palm against the interrogator’s chin and used his own electric baton against him. They had been ready to take the chip out of his wrist – everything that was stored inside was of his own memories, all the times he’s talked and interacted and every memory of Shiro’s smile – and he can’t. He can’t let them have it. He can’t let them use Keith again to hurt Shiro.

Not anymore.

A trooper turns the corner before him and, before he could raise his rifle, Keith slams the rod against the hollow under the armor – in the crease between hip and chest – and ignites it. The trooper convulses before Keith pulls the rod out and he collapses to the ground. Keith pulls the rifle from his hands and arms it – continuing in his sprint.

His vision is hazy, and his legs are trembling, and most of the wounds on his chest are still bleeding, but damn it if he’s going to let the Empire take him willing. Damn it if he’s going to roll over and submit and die.

Another cell to his right, and it’s the only one that’s closed, every other was left open. He makes a decision the moment he comes upon it and grips the rifle, blasting the controls. The blast door opens, and he pokes his head in and finds a purple-skinned beast, looking up at him in surprise and wariness.

“Hey, I’m fucking getting outta here and I need a co-pilot. Can you fly?”

The beast is a Galra, and his name is Thace.

Later, an Imperial frigate bursts out of the thin wall beside the shield generators of the Star Destroyer and before the TIE fighters could assemble into a fleet, the frigate’s jumped into lightspeed.

∞

“Who’s this?” Pidge asks as they get to the _Kerberos’_ hangar, jumping on the ship just as it starts. Lance summarizes things for her and the rest of the team as they all pile up the steps and into the safety of the gunship.

Keith is the last one to board and a hand reaches out to help him. He takes it without looking, the cloak somewhat getting in the way of the ladder and when he’s pulled up gently – unlike the way Thace would – he raises his head and finds Shiro standing.

“Thanks,” he manages to say and the realization that his bare hand is in Shiro’s left, their skin touching, is enough for him to clam up and pull his hand back. It’s surprising, actually, that he manages to say something. It’s the most he’s said since the archives – and even then, it was still too much. He’s said too much, bared too much inside.

_Is one life worth all that?_

_Sometimes, it is._

Those are the words Shiro’s eyes were saying, and he looks away from the man as the gunship takes off, eyeing the rest of the team. Thace isn’t around, but it’s fine. They had agreed that Keith would take off with the gunship while Thace brings the corvette to the rear. Their job wasn’t just the plans, but also the escort. One stop down, two more.

And—

It’ll be over.

_After this mission, I never want to see you again._

It’ll be fine.

It’s not like he’s not used to it – to disappearing. He’s done it so many times, he’s surprised he hasn’t gone entirely nonexistent. It’s better this way – better for Shiro to heal from the betrayal, and the loss and he’ll forget about Keith.

It’ll be fine.

He’s gone so long on the loss, he’s become addicted to the way it carves at his insides.

Still—Keith nods, and steps away, and pretends not to notice the way he can feel Shiro’s eyes on his back. He makes a place for himself by the edge of the hangar doors, watching the shields come up and the horizon alters as the ship turns about smoothly. Leave it to Pidge on being able to handle this giant with ease.

“You okay?” He hears Lance ask, and he turns his head to see the man talking to Shiro. Gueros is on the ground, quiet and looking out, although the glaze in his eyes seem to tell otherwise.

He watches Shiro shrug, a curl of his lips raised in a sheepish smile. Keith drinks the sight in greedily, starving from the vision of that smile. It’s not enough – it’ll never be enough, he can’t get enough of Shiro – but it’s what he can have, and he’ll imprint it on to his mind until it’s the only thing he can never forget. “I’ll live, although the arm is hurting a bit.”

Lance frowns. “Break something?”

Keith tenses, eyes roving over Shiro’s form. There doesn’t seem to be anything broken or in need of medical attention.

Shiro has an unsure look on his face, and he raises his gloved arm – and Keith notices that only Shiro’s right hand is in a glove and—wait, he’s not imagining it, right? How Shiro is right-handed but has been using his left extensively? To pull him up, hold his gun, fight?

Shiro pulls the glove away with his left, and the sight of a mechanical hand instead of a real one has all the blood turning into ice, and his stomach dropping—

“What—?” His question is asked hoarsely, and the two turn to him in alarm. Keith stalks forward, not noticing anything but the mechanical hand – the silver on the steel, the wires under the plating – and the absence of the human hand, the hand that Shiro wears the ring on, the absence of the ring—

Keith growls, pushing into Lance. “What the hells—!”

“Get off of me!” Lance shouts, pushes him back. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

A hand is on his chest and is pushing him away, the mechanical on Lance’s chest and Shiro steps in between, angry. “Enough!”

Shiro turns to him, glaring. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Keith is seeing red, because all he could think about is Shiro’s metal hand. “What’s wrong with _me_ ?! What’s wrong with _you!”_

He points to Lance and scowls at him and seethes. “What the fuck happened to his hand, Lance! How could you let him get this hurt!”

The words are angry and bitter and pained because this happened and Keith wasn’t around. He wasn’t there to protect Shiro, protect him from what took his hand away and what the hell was the rest of the team doing, not looking after—

“What happened?” Lance’s voice goes oddly flat, all anger in his eyes but not in his words. Keith stills, unsure of the change in the other’s temperament. “You really want to know what happened?”

“Lance…” Shiro sounds imploring, and there’s this haunted, old pain on his face – like the topic is something too painful to speak of. Lance isn’t having any of it, and Keith watches as the expression on his face turns downright nasty and contemptuous.

“You happened, Keith.” It’s not a punch, but an entire comet against Keith that his raised, pointed hand falls to his side, listless. “This is what happened when you fired on Shiro’s engines. You did this. You caused this. You hurt _him._ It’s what you do, isn’t it? You and your Empire. You take what’s good and you destroy it until nothing’s left.”

Lance finishes with a disgusted sigh, and walks away. Shiro doesn’t call out after him, turns to Keith and Keith looks up at him, eyes wide and his hands shaking and his lips trembling. The resignation and the weariness in Shiro’s face says it all and—

He’s taking one step back. And another.

_Monster._

_Murderer._

_Killer._

“Keith, please.” The other’s voice is quiet, low, and it’s tight with emotion. Keith shakes his head, doesn’t know what to do—looking about, at the hangar, the starfighters, the defector on the ground watching them in apprehension—and he takes another step back.

He couldn’t have – he couldn’t have destroyed—

Did he?

He doesn’t know. All he remembers is red blaster fire, the engines exploding and Shiro’s fighter crashing into the side of the gunship with so much force that the right wing breaks away and turns into debris. He didn’t meant for this—he didn’t want to hurt Shiro like this—he didn’t—

He just wanted to save him.

He just wanted to protect him.

“Don’t—“ Shiro is looking at him, eyes tight and hard. “Don’t you dare look at me like that, Keith. I’m not weak. This doesn’t make me weak.”

_No, it’s not that._ Keith thinks. _It’s never that._

It was Keith—

He was—

He destroyed—

Lance was right. They were right. Everyone was right. Nobody makes it out of the Empire alive. Maybe he died, already, and he’s just a caricature of what’s left and a carrion of what’s ugly and destructive—

He’s an infection. He hurts the people around him. He comes into their lives and destroys them from the inside out. He’s the walking time bomb that causes a chain reaction of suffering and loss, until he’s surrounded in so much blood that he’s seeing and breathing red. He can’t—it’s the idea, the belief that he could—but he can’t—

He can’t be forgiven for this.

He can’t forgive himself for this.

He _can’t_ fix this.

Keith takes one step back, and another—

“Monster,” comes from his own lips and his hands raise to his cheeks, his nails biting into his skin and he pulls them down, feels the bite against his own skin, feels the redness as he curls over, the force of what he’s done – the immense pain and the violence that ripped Shiro apart – comes at him without mercy and he tumbles back, swallowing in a sob. “I’m a monster.”

There are hands on Keith’s, pulling them away from his face and Shiro’s in front of him—

“Keith,” Gods, he misses the sound of his own name on Shiro’s lips and it’s been everything he’s dreamt of, everything he’s been too afraid and too weak to dream of, everything that he had held on to in a lonely, broken attempt to stay sane, to chain himself to the belief that he’s not really a monster, that he’s still a person—still worthy of forgiveness, of happiness, worthy to be loved—

The metal of Shiro’s right is frigid against his skin and Keith pulls himself away.

“No, no, _no._ ” Keith batts Shiro’s hands away, stepping back, and turns away from the pained look in the other’s eyes. “Don’t come near me, please. Please.”

He has to stay away. Keith turns and _runs_ —away, somewhere remote, alone, where he can’t hurt anyone else, where he can’t see the anguish on Shiro’s face and liquid gleam of taupe eyes and where he can’t destroy anything.

Where he can’t hurt Shiro any more than he already have.

He shouldn’t have come back.

He shouldn’t have gone here.

He should have died aboard that ship.

∞

Pain. Bright burning pain.

That’s what he notices.

That’s what he thinks.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s screaming until his eyes open and his voice grows hoarse and he feels like every pore in his body is an open wound, festering and blistering.

He doesn’t notice the color of the sky or the feel of the earth under him. All he notices is the burning pain running up his arm and the shrapnel and the broken parts of the frigate around him. There’s fire, he feels it, and there’s pain and so much pain.

Some of the metal rubble are moved and the pain multiplies by the thousand that his scream changes pitch and cracks, and tears are running down his eyes and—

“It’s not good,” he hears a rough voice and Keith blinks his eyes open and manages to see, through the white-hot pain, that it’s the Galran and his arm is red and burnt and bleeding. Overhead, there are approaching ships and speeders and Keith wonders if this is it.

If this is the end.

More rubble is shifted, and he screams some more, as his arm – mangled – is exposed to the air and the heat and the pain arcs and lances through him until he’s gasping, unable to breathe, unable to think beyond the blinding agony.

“Can’t—can’t know I’m—can’t. They’ll kill me.” He manages to get out and he turns his head to the Galran and the Galran looks down and sees the edge of the barcode on his wrist, the part that’s not burned and mangled. “Please. Don’t wanna die.”

“I heard them talking about you, and the chip in your wrist.” The Galran says, voice even and barely audible as Keith’s scream splutters to cries as sharp claws rip the skin open, blood lacing the edges and he sees it—

The chrome color of the chip.

Everything is in there. Every glimmer of Shiro’s smile, the crinkles of his eyes. The taupe on gold on ochre and the ruffle of his hair across his face. Every memory of Shiro is in there – in clear detail, perfect and he’d want to—he’d want to replay those memories over and over.

The way Shiro parts his lips with his own, the scent of cedar against his skin and the feel of his hands on Keith’s cheeks.

The heat and wetness of Shiro’s tongue on his skin – on his neck, chest, between his legs and on his entrance – and the way it feels when he kisses him deeply, thoroughly and messily.

The look of surprise – the flush of red across Shiro’s cheeks – when Keith presents him a ring under Naboo’s morning sun and the way it looks on his hand, and the way Shiro’s pendant feels against his chest, the only memento he has of his family.

The Galran holds it on his finger, edged by the claw and Keith blinks his eyes, pleads with his eyes because he doesn’t know if he can still speak, if he can still pull up a voice out of all the screaming—

The chip is thrown into the fire.

Keith’s feels hot tears on his face, and he closes his eyes and waits for what else life has in store for him. He doesn’t know how much more he can take — he’s lost so much, what else was left?

∞

“He wouldn’t believe us, you know.”

Keith stirs, his neck aching from its position as he curls in on himself, hidden in the corner of the balcony. He doesn’t know how long he’s hidden here, how long he’s curled into a ball behind the fuel tanks and the other metal containers, hiding in his cloak, watching the rush of star lines as the _Kerberos_ travels in lightspeed, the _Krolia_ trailing after.

He doesn’t turn his head, and he’s not even sure if Pidge knows if he’s awake or dead. She doesn’t go away, though.

She approaches the rails and rests her arms on it, leaning forward. Her tone isn’t friendly – but it’s not…antagonistic. It’s more than what he’s expected. More than what he deserved.

He doesn’t know what he deserves.

“After we told him what happened, even played the recording of you betraying us,” Keith closes his eyes and leans his forehead against his pulled-up knees and breathes, digs his forehead into his knees so hard it hurts. Pidge either doesn’t notice, or care, as she continues, “he still won’t believe it. Said it’s not who you are. Said it’s what the Empire turned you into.”

“He’s wrong.” He finally says, quietly.

Pidge snorts. “Of course, he is.”

The frankness of the tone bites into him and Keith raises his head, tiredly watching the blue of lightspeed.

“Still,” Pidge’s voice is quieter, like she’s talking to herself instead of him, “he wouldn’t believe it. Kept saying over and over that we’re wrong, that you’re not a traitor. He believed in you.”

_Believed. Past tense._

“Kept waiting for you, came back to Corellia over and over, waiting for you at the cliffs. Said you’ll come back one day, and he wanted to be there.”

Keith sighs, unsure if he’ll ever get used to the world-heavy weight on his chest. “Why are you telling me this, Pidge?”

There’s silence on the other end, and Keith closes his eyes, leans back and rests his temple against his knees. His hood is up, and the dark color of it blends with the metal. If he wills it enough, maybe he’ll blend into the background and just stay there, forever. Where he can’t hurt anyone. Where he can’t be anyone.

He can just disappear and never look back.

“I don’t know, actually.” Pidge answers, not unkindly. There’s a tone of calculation in her voice. “Kriff knows you don’t deserve to know any of this after what you’ve done, but if you want to start fixing things, you get off your ass and do something.”

Keith mulls over her words as she walks away, and tries to pinpoint where to begin fixing things when the entire board is full of mistakes.

∞

The light shifts in his vision, and Keith groans, turning his head away. There’s quiet laughter and the touch of Shiro’s hand up his bare back. He feels the light against his face, but it’s not warm enough to be a bother – except for the intensity. The intensity is annoying.

He scrunches his face and forces his face deeper into the pillows, and Shiro laughs again, a giddy sound that warms Keith’s insides. He peeks one tired eye open, and Shiro’s on his side, smiling down at him.

There are lines of sleep across his face, and his hair is unrulier than usual, but his chest is bare and the look in his eyes are tender and soft and the way his hand runs down Keith’s sides sends tingles down his veins.

Keith is still half-asleep, that’s the only explanation he has, the one that seems to fit, when he slowly mutters – whispers—

“I love you.”

And—

It’s something Keith’s realized, in the months they’ve been together, in the times they’ve touched and kissed and fucked—

Except, it’s not just fucking—

And maybe it was, at the start. Maybe it was just energy and adrenaline and the attraction forcing them together, in bed and over each other’s skin.

But, it’s not—

Not anymore, not for Keith. Not when Shiro’s smile in the morning makes his blood thrum the way a cocky, seductive smirk would, but there’s no heat in Shiro’s smile, just affection.

Not when the lights cutting in through the windows turn his eyes gold and it squeezes Keith’s heart too tight for him to breathe normally.

Not when Shiro’s laughter as he falls off the speeder and tumbles across Alderaan’s fields – grass and snow and earth – and Keith’s standing over him, heart pounding, and legs weak as Shiro looks up at him, smiling that tight lipped smile and saying his name.

And—

He’s not imagining it, right—

The soft touches, and the glances and the quiet whispers of endearments when it’s just the two of them or the cognizance that he carries, the way Shiro puts his hands on his cheeks and tells him it’s okay, that he’s okay, that he’s not a monster, that he’s not a murderer, that he’s better than anything the Empire can ever turn him into and that his own hands can make something beautiful, like the way Shiro’s smile grows when he puts his hand on the other’s cheek, and that his hands aren’t just geared for destroying—that Keith isn’t just made for destruction.

It’s not just Keith who is feeling all that, right? It’s not just Keith who looks at Theed’s effervescent rivers and tries not to think of a future, not think of settling down, waking up in Shiro’s arms and knowing this is what home feels like.

It’s not just Keith, right?

Shiro’s smile grows tender, and the taupe become ochre and Shiro leans down to kiss him, softly, tenderly – like he’s important – and the way Shiro adorns his nose, his chin with the softness of his kiss—

“I love you, too.”

∞

Corsin is small, warm – the kind of warm that has gentle rain falling on tall trees, the kind that has gentle sunlight on your face when the storm has passed. It’s idyllic – quiet – a kind of place you’d want to raise a family, with the shimmering sea in the distance.

Except Shiro doesn’t really feel like enjoying the scenery. Not with the ever present gaping maw between him and Keith and, just, this entire business.

Had he known that accepting this mission would mean hurtling back face to face with the person he’s loved so hard and lost so terribly, he would have refused.

_Would you have, really?_ Shiro sighs, shaking his head as he watches Rebel soldiers load bacta tanks and munitions into the _Kerberos_.

For so long, he had searched and waited and begged anything that would hear him – in this galaxy – to tell him where Keith had gone. He can’t recall everything in that disastrous run on the Perlemian route, but what he remembers is his ship’s radar blaring as he’s targeted, and turning just in time to see Keith fire on him and his engines.

Everything after that was a twisting mess – screeching metal against metal, his ship hurtling around, his arm trapped under the weight of the ship when it crashed against the _Kerberos_ and the feeling of blinding, white-hot pain as the wing breaks away and he feels something break and _tear_ apart before he passed out from the pain.

He wakes up, three weeks later, in a medical bay on Thila’s moon, the nearest Rebellion base from the route.  He wakes up with his right arm gone and a Keith-shaped hole in his chest.

Shiro watches Keith lurk in the background, watching the cargo being hauled up. Pidge was up in her bridge, as usual, while Lance and Hunk were down by the shore, enjoying the breath of fresh air – probably talking about the return of their long lost teammate.

He can’t really fault them for their cold reception towards Keith — they loved him as much as Shiro did, saw him as part of their family and even though it hadn’t started swimmingly, they learned to look past the prejudices of Keith’s stormtrooper past and saw him as the bright star Shiro knew was in there. What happened hurt them — more than what they tell Shiro and he can see it in the downturn frown on Lance’s lips or the worried, bitter gleam in Hunk’s eyes.

He has so many questions, things he’s asked himself over and over in the last few months – the things that he keeps voicing out and hearing no response, no matter how loud and hoarse his voice grows and he doesn’t hear the response, doesn’t hear his name spoken so softly – so wondrously – against his neck and the glimmer of purple beneath dark hair.

What had changed? What had made Keith turn on them so suddenly? What made Keith open fire on them—on him? What made him do all that—

—and show up, out of the blue and in almost a year and a half of absence that Shiro had actually thought he had died? What made him do all that and show up, shocked at the loss of Shiro’s arm like it was something he did not imagine he would be responsible of? What made him do all that and show up, fighting for _their_ side beside a Galran with the brand of an Imperial slave on his arm? What was his game?

Was it worth it? Keith had said yes, said it was. The way he said it – quiet but clear, not looking away from Shiro’s eyes – it had hurt so much, left him gasping. But—

There was something – a line of regret, loss – in those eyes and, gods, he doesn’t know if Keith’s become this good an actor, but he’s never – he was _never_ able to hide anything from Shiro before, every emotion as clear as day, the way his eyes would light up in laughter or the scrunching of his nose in embarrassment or the curl of his lips in amusement—

There was something deeper, under that word ‘yes’. Something far deeper.

He wants to know. He intends to know. He deserves that much.

“Keith.” Shiro calls out, and the hooded figure stiffens on his approach. He’d never – he’d never want to make Keith uncomfortable, and he spent so long trying to coax that ease out of him – after they met in Rishi – but this is something he needs to know. And something Keith owes him. “I need to talk to you.”

Keith doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t seem welcoming as he crosses his arms and ducks his head, hood falling over his eyes. Shiro sighs, turning his head and noting the Galran – Thace – watching them from down below.

“What.” The word isn’t poised as a question, the tone flat and unpleasant. On anyone else, that would have worked. Not on Shiro – not when he has experience with this.

“When you told me that it was worth it, what did you mean by that?” He lays it out, fast and as it is. No covering the truth, no hushing up. There’s a sharp intake of breath and Shiro holds on to the bitterness in his chest to curb the ache to wrap his arms around Keith and lock him away. “What we had—that promise on Naboo—did it mean anything to you?”

It hurts – to talk about it, to say it aloud. It hurts with the intensity of everything he’s lost and everything he’s painted turned dark and dreary. Keith doesn’t answer yet, but Shiro sees the way his thumb is biting into the skin of his index finger and he sees the way Keith is biting so hard that his lip is split open. There are too many cuts on his lip, Shiro notices – now that he’s this close – and there are too many scars on his knuckles and hands, and there’s a long-healed deep cut across his neck that was never there before—a cut that doesn’t seem survivable in the least and the realization, the thought that Keith was this close to death, once, and Shiro wasn’t around—

He has to look away, blinking as the ugly feeling of loneliness and just utter heartbreak wages a war in his chest.

_What happened to you, Keith?_

“Why are you asking this?” Is the only thing he gets, spoken evenly, voice barely above a whisper.

Shiro frowns, tries not let the acidity to reach his voice. “Don’t I deserve to know, Keith? After what happened?”

After the crash? After the months spent in the medical bay, recuperating, holding on to his sanity as his world crumbles around him? After the listless years spent lost, waiting for a ghost before Corellia’s sun?

Keith grows smaller, if that’s even possible, like he’s trying to physically force himself into something infinitesimal. It brings vitriol and despair to the forefront and Shiro’s had enough of this—

The Keith he knows doesn’t slink in the shadows, he doesn’t hide himself under too-big cloaks and too-long hair and bites his lips until they bleed. The Keith he knows doesn’t sit so still, stand so quietly that it takes a double take to realize he’s there, like he’s become invisible. The Keith he knows doesn’t look like he’s seen the worst of everything and has all the light and life siphoned away, haunted and hollow.

“Damn it Keith, talk to me!” Shiro roars, raising his hand to pull the kriffing hood away from Keith’s face, exposing unruly hair and wide mauve eyes – and the intensity of their color, in display of the bright sunlight has Shiro recalling so much, so many memories, all happy – all blindingly, exceedingly bright and euphoric – memories, the memories that he’s kept in a cage in his chest like a forbidden treasure, memories that he fears, once exposed to the light, would turn stale and crumble into dust. “Did I mean anything to you?”

Shiro finds himself terrified, waiting for the answer.

Keith’s eyes tremble – not looking away from Shiro – and they gleam, liquid, and Keith’s voice is fragile, brittle, glass-like. “You meant everything to me.”

And—

He’s not lying, Shiro realizes. Keith’s not lying – because he can see it all in his eyes; he can see the heartbreak and the loneliness and the so much _pain_ and regret. He can see the hollow in them – the way the emptiness has curled on itself and turned and festered and grew dank and bitter – and he can see the lines of anguish down on his face, the deep _dark_ circles under his eyes and the exhausted, gaunt color of his skin. He can see all the days and weeks and months of carrying such a heavy weight that it bordered on maddening, and he can see it all fade away, locking in, pushing him out as Keith ducks and pulls his hood back over.

“Keith—“ His voice is wobbly and wet and Shiro doesn’t feel strong. He hasn’t felt strong in a while. “Don’t, don’t turn away, please. Tell me. Tell me why.”

Keith, he finally sees, is trembling as he pulls at his hood and Shiro—he can’t leave it like this. He grabs Keith’s wrist and he feels him still _so_ violently and that Shiro is afraid he had hurt him—

Until he notices the feeling of Keith’s skin under his grasp and he pulls his hand to see—

The skin on the inside of Keith’s wrist is _mottled_ , splotched and the skin is inflamed. The color is uneven, the tender red of a long-healed burn scar running from his wrist to the inside of his forearm and—

Shiro’s shocked, stunned. He pulls the cloak and the jacket higher and sees the burn run up to elbow, possibly arm but Keith is pulling his hand away from Shiro, cradling it close to his chest and the irony—

Oh, _gods,_ the irony is not lost on him as his metal hand scrapes the palm of his human one, and he sees the burn marks on Keith’s right hand to arm against his bare left.

“I had to.” Keith says, croaks so silently – so quietly – and it takes a minute for Shiro to realize he’s asked why. ‘I had to’ – what did that mean? What did Keith mean by that?

Why does it have his chest wringing so hard? Why does it make him feel like earth is crumbling in his hands? Why does it feel like he’s losing everything again?

“I had to protect you.”

And Keith is turning away and melding into the shadows and Shiro feels the tracks of something hot, warm, run down his cheeks.

∞

It always comes in series of waves and motion.

The way Keith smiles into his kiss, the way his arms wrap around Shiro’s shoulders first – pulling him in – and Shiro can’t resist that, can’t resist anything Keith has, anything Keith has to offer.

The lips under his part, and a moan runs up Keith’s throat and Shiro wants it—wants the moans and the delicious cries, the pants and the groans against his lips—but it’s not just that.

He wants Keith and the fire-lined energy in his eyes and in his hands when he’s pulling his fighter up for a roll and seamlessly – perfectly – cuts through space and in between smuggler ships and asteroids, laughing all the way, crimson trailing him like envious stars. He wants Keith and the curl of his lip in victory as he finally, _finally_ manages to outwit Lance in their banter, and the wide-eyed guffaw of excitement as he turns to Shiro to ensure he’s looking at them – as if Shiro’s capable of looking away from Keith. He wants Keith and the downturn line of his lashes as he sleeps – no frown marring his features, no scowl on his lips – peaceful, bare skin amidst the dark green of Shiro’s blanket, and his hair across his face, messy, but everything that has Shiro’s heart beating faster than a Kessel run in twelve parsecs.

He wants Keith and his scrunched up nose, and his sharp brows and his raptor-sharp eyes and that playful tongue and that bright-eyed excitement—

He wants Keith and his mauve-purple eyes that shone like nebulas, a discharge of violet on a field of blue and green. He wants Keith and his dark mane of hair, long and wavy and reaching down his shoulder blades and he wants Keith and the hitch in his voice as Shiro delicately parts the hair and kisses his spine.

“Shiro, more,” Keith whispers against his lips and Shiro can’t do anything but comply, as he trails kisses down his jaw and his neck. He loves the way the hitch in Keith’s voice echoes and trembles against his lips on the skin of his neck. Arms pull him closer and he feels Keith’s legs wrap around his waist, impatiently pulling him in.

“Slow down, alright, I’m here,” He says – whispers – against the lobe of Keith’s ears and he shivers and Shiro smiles, pressing one more kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way Keith’s eyes open – slits first and then slowly widening, like a blooming flower – and the way they rove over Shiro’s face as the words linger in the air. “I know.”

And, this time, it’s Shiro who shivers – at the _faith_ and the trust and the belief in those eyes. He’s seen snippets of it in the eyes of his team, Lance and Pidge and Hunk and he used to see it in the eyes of the men under his command in the Clone Wars and, even after the nightmares and the loss, when those eyes are closed forever as the Republic falls and the Empire rises – he’s never felt like he’s holding the gravity of an entire person, an entire life, in his hand the way Keith makes him feel when he looks at Shiro like that.

He leans down and takes those lips again – because Shiro doesn’t have the words to describe the way he feels, the burn of excitement and the lighting-arc of arousal and the inevitably growing weight in his stomach at just how much he—

He loves Keith.

Just that.

Just Keith.

Nothing but him.

And—

He doesn’t know how far Keith is willing to offer, he doesn’t know the cards Keith has in his hand and he doesn’t know what it means, what this means – this touching and kissing and making love because Shiro can’t call it fucking, it’s not just fucking for him, it wasn’t even fucking at the start – what _they_ mean to Keith because the magnitude of what this means to Shiro is too honest, too terrifying and too grounding for Shiro to think right now.

So, he focuses on what he can—

On the way Keith laughs as Shiro playfully bites his collarbones, and the way the light plays off Keith’s head like a bright halo as he sits up and watches Shiro take him into his mouth, trembling thighs and the scent of something just purely Keith and the way his eyes turn and gleam liquid purple as he tries to keep his noise down but Shiro wants all of it—

Pulls his hand away from his lips and Shiro hears his own name—

Feels it trembling through the lean this and the jutting of Keith’s cock in his mouth—

And the way it pulses and trembles and Shiro tastes Keith in all his purity.

Shiro takes what he can – what Keith is willing to give – and it varies from the way Keith’s fingers run up his arms and down his jaw as Shiro leans up and over and kisses him deep and hears the moan run up Keith’s throat at tasting himself on Shiro’s tongue—

And it varies to the way Keith smiles against his lips and slowly press Shiro until they slowly roll to the side and it’s Shiro on the bed and Keith atop him, bathing him in light – and, _fuck_ , he looks like an angel—

And—

Shiro’s not going to ask him if he really is, because not only is it stupid and cheesy—

Keith leans down, trailing kisses down the line and the plane of Shiro’s chest and his navel and Keith takes Shiro into his mouth and his vision goes white.

Shiro’s not going to ask. He already knows Keith is one.

“Gods, Keith—“ His own voice hitches, the treble changing and Shiro laughs breathlessly and recklessly and happily as Keith nips and licks and takes him deep and it all turns into a blissful groan. “—baby, please, oh, _gods._ ”

And when Keith looks up beneath his hair and there’s fire in those eyes and a challenge and, fuck, Shiro can only take so much before he’s undone, releasing into Keith’s mouth and he knows Keith can see every fucking emotion on his face – because Keith can, he can wipe away all the walls and the shields he’s built with just a smile.

When he pulls Keith up, pulls him close and leans into him and over him and when Keith wants more – whispers more – and when Keith puts his legs above his shoulders and Shiro leans close, kisses him and asks—

“Let me in.”

And Keith does, and Shiro groans aloud, and presses an open-mouthed ecstatic kiss against Keith’s cheek, like the core-world wonder he was and it’s just—

When Keith looks at him like that, and the velvet heat is just too much and the blown-out black of Keith’s purple eyes egg him on, his own halo and Shiro can’t do anything but obey, hitches his legs higher and pushes in deeper, pulls out until only the head remains before pushing back in.

How each stroke, each push and pull, every motion of his hips has ecstasy run across Keith’s face – and,  gods, he looks so beautiful like this, with those wide eyes and that beatific smile and that flush of red on his cheeks that Shiro wonders if it’s possible to have Keith like this forever.

Forever—

And the word does things to Shiro’s inside as he wonders if Keith is willing to offer forever, because Shiro is—

Shiro is—

He wants Keith with him, forever.

He wants to show Keith the galaxy – when it’s free.

He wants to show Keith the rushing waves of Naboo, and Theed’s tall palaces and the gleaming statues and the rush of a myriad of colors as the Queen and her entourage makes her rounds. He wants to show Keith the snowy caps and the majestic towers of Alderaan, her green fields and blue seas and the whiteness of her snow and how Keith would look amongst it. He wants to make love to Keith on the shore of Corellian seas, wants to see that look of arousal and pleasure in those eyes and on those cheeks as sea-water rushes at them and the Corellian sunset paints them in wondrous, beautiful gold. He wants to bring Keith home to Balmorra and see how it could be, when the Empire is gone, when people are free, when there’s no need to hide who they are. He wants to take Keith to Voss and the brown-gold of her leaves, to Ryloth and her craggy mountains and Felucia and how the planet seems to be one gigantic plant, alive and breathing and sentient.

He wants Keith in the sunrise and the setting sun and in the fading twilight.

“Shiro,” and Keith whispers his name, brokenly, lost in his pleasure and suddenly Keith’s too tight, both his arms around his shoulders, legs around Shiro’s waist and around Shiro’s cock and something wet grows between them and, gods, he’s so tight and warm and the way Shiro’s name breaks on the last syllable—

Has him whispering Keith’s name before taking those lips and letting loose inside him.

Shiro doesn’t know if Keith wants forever or how far he’s willing to go, but what he can give – what Keith is willing to offer, because it will always be dependent on Keith and not Shiro, whatever inch or mile – be it the next station or the next quadrant or, hells, the next galaxy over – Shiro will take it and—

Keith doesn’t have to worry about what Shiro can offer, about what he can get and receive and if there’s a price for that – because there isn’t, anything and everything Shiro gives is of his own volition—

His heart, soul and body, all of it—

Keith can get anything he wants, for how long he wants it, because Shiro has, long ago, offered everything.

∞

Corsin’s seas are black and blue under her night sky. There’s only one moon, the other was too far away, and it lends the sky a darker hue. Still, Keith finds it beautiful. Peaceful. Wondrous.

He’s reminded of the daydreams he used to have, hidden in his mind, on the nights where he can’t sleep and the rest of his bunkmates in the Garrison have long fallen to slumber. Balmorra had lakes and seas like these, and they’d shine and glow like this.

Someone sits on the boulder a few feet from him, and Keith finds Hunk, a foot up on the rest of the boulder and just watching the sea, the wind coursing through his hair. Keith ducks his head and lets his hand fall to the sand, feeling the grains in his fingers and the feel of the waves that managed to get this high up, feels the wetness and the coolness.

“Reminds me of home.” Hunk says, and his voice isn’t exactly the warm, honeyed booming one that Keith remembers, the kind that grows pleading whenever they used to pass a food stall in whatever planet they were on. It’s not — it’s more even, calmer and a bit distant. Keith’s noticed the changes in the team and it’s why he’s kept to himself, not knowing how to adjust to the new dynamic.

Or, maybe nothing has changed and it’s just Keith — just his presence and the reminder of what happened that sobers them all. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Keith purses his lips, and his voice is quiet, though the winds carry it further. “Gatalenta, right?”

A hum is his only response and Keith waits as the wind cuts through his hair. “Home was too peaceful for me. All tea and poetry and that. Never really fit in there. I wanted adventure, wanted to join battles and fly my own ship but when the time came that I could, when I got the invitation to join the Imperial academy, I chickened out. Tried to find excuses.”

Keith raises a hand to push the hair away from his face. The nearby moon’s reflection oscillated along with the waves, and he lets out a breath. He could stay here, just watching the same movements, over and over again. It’d be peaceful.

Maybe he can. He doesn’t know how this mission is going to finish — and this may be the last time he’ll ever see the team, or Shiro. The thought still hurts — it will always hurt — but he can breathe easier now. Being able to tell Shiro that one thing, no matter how short and insignificant it was, was enough. It was more than anything Keith imagined he would be able to say — more than the platitudes that were too unfeeling and more than the drawn-out lengthy anecdotes in his head that sounded wrong every time the words pass his mouth — and being able to hear them aloud, _I had to protect you,_ it was enough.

Maybe he can find some vestige of peace in that.

“Funny,” Hunk continues and Keith looks back at him, and tries to put a smile on his lips. Small. There we go. Victory. Greatest accomplishment he’s had so far, and the saddest thing about it is that it’s true. “Now that I’m here, away from home, always in battle and meeting different people everyday, I end up missing it all the more. Just how peaceful it is, how I never had to put myself out there all the time. Never had to feel like a million people depended on me and I never realized it.”

Hunk chuckles, a corner of his lip turning up as he continues to look at the moon low on the horizon. “Realize what, Hunk?”

The pilot’s eyes shift to his, and there’s no animosity there — maybe a bit of weariness, but no vitriol, no hate. Keith blinks and tries to hold eye contact. Hunk frowns and shrugs. “I just realized that I could go home anytime I want and no one could hold it against me. I had a choice then, and I have a choice now.”

“That’s nice,” Keith says, and it’s not unkindly. It really must be nice, to have the choice, to have the options to do things at your own pace. “You should go home more often. Your family must miss you.”

“Yeah.” Hunk agrees, a bit distantly, his gaze still on the moon. The words that follow are serious, though, and has Keith sitting up. “When I got the letter to the academy, what I did first was burn it and went out with my friends and got myself into so much trouble my parents basically barred me from going off-world.”

Keith frowns, a bit confused. Hunk looks at him and the gaze is filled with meaning. “What I’m trying to say is that I had a choice, to go be an Imperial soldier or stay at home. Not everyone had that choice.”

He ducks his head, avoiding the look in Hunk’s eyes. Keith tastes ash in his mouth, even though his heart doesn’t beat with the jealousy he expects when Hunk’s words register. “It’s good that you made the right choice, Hunk.”

A grunt and the man stands. “Guess so, just pissed not everyone was able to. Empire turned good people into shitty ones.”

Keith looks up, overcome. “Hunk…”

“Shiro told me that you did it because you had to, that you needed to protect him.” Hunk cuts through, crossing his arms and his gaze is serious. Keith wants to look away, but he doesn’t. Not after what Hunk had said. “Is that true? Yes or no, Keith. Honesty, this time. That’s all I ask.”

Hunk isn’t eyeing him in judgement. He was just asking - a friend asking, making sure. Keith’s spent so long looking over his shoulder and double-guessing words and motives and seeing ghosts in the wrong places. He looks to the sky and the moon and the infinite blackness of space — freedom, possibility. “Yes, Hunk.”

He doesn’t know how Hunk will react, if he’ll storm off or he’ll start a barrage of questions - _why, why betray us?_ \- but nothing comes from his end, and Keith thinks he’s left until he hears footsteps near him and he turns, just as Hunk drops a black jacket into his hands. “Here. Try not to get a cold, okay?”

And the pilot is turning back, walking to the _Kerberos_ and Keith feels the texture in his hands, feels the familiarity, the jacket’s color and sees the creases and the chipped-off parts and his heart burns with the understanding, as recognizable as the veins on his hand. It was Shiro’s.

“Hey,” Keith looks up, tries to spot Hunk in the blurriness of his gaze. “You should come home more often. Your family misses you too.”

And Hunk walks away just as Keith raises a hand to wipe at his eyes, and when he removes them, he sees Shiro standing in the distance.

Keith looks away and wraps the jacket in his arms and presses it against his face, cedar in his nostrils and his eyes close, home drifting in his ears and on his skin.

∞

Someone is slapping his face, and Keith groans, waving them off. His hands are batted away, and he’s being forced to sit up. Except Keith and his stomach and his sense of balance aren’t exactly cooperative, or in the mood to sit up. Once he’s in an upright position, he falls forward and starts vomiting on all fours.

Bile, something sour and what he thinks, half-sure, is his own liver comes running out into the puddle under him. He feels the presence of whichever asshole decided to pity him and help him up and they’re about to get a beating—

If he can find it in him to even breathe through his nose and not his mouth like a damn animal.

Keith blinks his eyes open, tries to see through the white-and-black of his vision and when he turns his head, he spies mauve-colored skin.

“Augh,” Keith complains, more vomit escaping his throat. “What the kriff do you want?”

Thace doesn’t answer, just stands and waits for him to get his shit straight. Well, he’ll have to wait — it’ll be kriffing forever until his shit is ever straight. There’s a joke in there somewhere, if he can manage to get past the urge to curl into a ball and sob at the onslaught of too many emotions, too many memories.

Seconds - hours - maybe centuries pass before Keith manages to sit up without the urge to vomit what he spent what’s probably a hundred credits on back out. He wipes his lips with the sleeve of his jacket and reaches for his chest, feels for the pendant — Shiro’s pendant — and still a bit disbelieving that he managed to escape a Star Destroyer with it in tow. All he had to do was burn his arm and get drunk every night.

“I’m going to Yavin. I got a job, delivery. Medpacs and bacta tanks.” Thace says, crossing his arms and looking at  Keith. The Galran is doing a good job at acting mysterious as hells, and Keith rolls his eyes and flaps his fingers at him.

“Well, then, go do _that_ and leave me alone.” Alone. Here. By the disposal canisters at the back of a cantina. On his knees, covered in vomit and gods know what else has died here, surrounded by his own ruin.

It’s where he belongs.

“I need a co-pilot.” Thace answers, and Keith opens his eyes, bleary and disbelieving and amused at finding nothing but truth in the Galran’s eyes.

“What’s in it for me?”

A twitch of the Galran’s ear. Keith doesn’t know why he feels like laughing at that.

“Do some good in the galaxy, maybe.”

The words instantly sober Keith up, and he’s glaring at the back of the Galran walking away. The garbage around him, in black bags and some out of the black bags, and its scent are starting to stick to his skin and the vomit by his boots is drying. “Kriffing Galran ass.”

Keith stands, wobbly, and calls for Thace to wait up.

∞

It happens when the _Kerberos_ is slowly taking off — having received its intended cargo, Voltron decided that it was time to depart and make way for their final stop, Yavin IV. The small moon, one of many, in orbit around Yavin. Keith’s never been to Yavin IV, managed to only circumnavigate Yavin during an old run with Thace — one of the first, actually — but had never landed in any of its moons.

He has an inkling as to what’s on Yavin IV, taking note of the munitions and the bacta tank and where the allegiances of Shiro and rest belong — he’s not part of Voltron, not anymore — but it doesn’t really matter in the long run. After Yavin IV, it’ll be the end. End of the job. Time for Thace and Keith to pack up and fly off and away.

Not like Keith’s leaving half, if not all, of who he was behind — all shaped in a too-big, too-warm man with a mechanical hand. Not like he deserves to stay, after all.

The _Kerberos_ just manages hit halfway past the atmosphere when the alarm comes.

_“We got a squadron approaching our three o’clock!”_ Pidge hollers over the comms link, the lights flashing red. “ _TIE interceptors just entered atmosphere!”_

Keith’s in the hangar, sitting by the edge, when he hears the alarm and he’s up on his feet. He makes eye contact with Thace — who was leaning back and checking the other fighters — and Thace looks down on his wrist. Keith pulls the sleeve up, heart in his throat and sees no barcode. No clone chip is inside his arm.

“I watched it burn.” Thace said, voice alarmed. Keith doesn’t answer him, doesn’t get to when Lance and Hunk and Shiro head into the hangar. Keith panics, watches as they assemble on their starfighters. Lance and Hunk were fine, but Shiro—he still seemed to have some difficulty on the mobility of his right hand. His eyes catch Shiro’s and something unspoken passes by them, some recognition - a change in the dynamics between them.

Probably because Keith looks like his heart is up his throat and because Shiro isn’t looking as confident as he usually is when he pilots.

“How the hells did they even know we were here?” Lance complains as he starts looping in the belts over his jacket, attaching the escape chute to his back.

“Don’t know, don’t care!” Hunk answers, already jumping into his cockpit. Keith stands in the middle, turns to Thace who is already nodding at him.

“I’ll detach the _Krolia_ from the gunship and cover our flank. Will you be okay here?”

Keith nods at him, even though he feels useless as there were no other fighters available and he wasn’t one to sit something out, not like this. In the distance, he can already see the growing dots of the incoming TIE interceptors.

Kriff, it had to be interceptors. Nothing screams like total annihilation like TIE interceptors — lacking any defenses and armor and just relying on its awesome speed and advanced weapons system, TIE interceptors were suicidal _and_ bloodthirsty. They either take out their opponents or die in the process. This will be an ugly battle.

Keith watches Thace run off to the _Krolia_ and turns to the rest of the pilots, watches as Shiro struggles to put his belts on, frustration growing on his features and sweat pooling at his temples and, gods, he just wants to—

“Shiro,” Keith says and hears the captain growl.

“Gods, _damn it._ I got this. I’m not fucking useless. I got this.”

Lance is already taking off, the blue of his engine trailing behind him, followed by the freighter Hunk feels at home in. Keith steps forward, reaching a hand out. “Shiro, I can—”

Shiro looks up and glares at him, but the anger isn’t directed at Keith so much as it is directed at himself. It’s somehow one and the same — it’s not like Keith wasn’t responsible for that happening. Guilt, an ever present ghost that has clung too hard and too tightly to Keith's skin, crawls up his back and down his throat until his vocal chords are shot. “I can do this, Keith. I’m not useless. I can still fight.”

Gods, can’t he just—

_“Shiro, Lance and Hunk are already engaging with the squadron. The Krolia’s still on the way.”_ Pidge announces, and Keith hears the clatter of the belts as Shiro throws them at the ground in frustration.

“How the fuck did they even know we were—?”

The defector, Gueros, who was watching the scene from the side, stood to pick up the fallen belts and Shiro starts fussing at him to ignore it and for Gueros to shake his head and bend down, back to Keith—

And that’s when he sees it.

The barcode on Gueros’ spine.

“Imperial!” Keith shouts, pointing to the defector and Shiro follows his gaze, towards the Eriadu human frozen on the spot. The moment Shiro’s eyes lock on the barcode, they become livid.

“Kriffing hells!” Shiro roars, stalking towards the defector — who was looking up at Shiro in terror, pale and shaking. “Please, please, don’t hurt me. I just wanted to leave. I never wanted to be with them.”

Shiro grabs the man by the neckline of his shirt and pulls him close to the hangar’s edge, ignoring the pleading cries of the man. Spit was trailing down Gueros’ lips as he blubbered to explain. “I don’t know how they found us. Please, I was only enlisted for a week and I ran away after. Please, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Keith watches the pitiful, pathetic way Gueros was trying to explain himself — the red-splotchy face and the tears in his eyes and the saliva bubbling on the edges of his lips — and how Shiro more or less dragged him to the edge, and he’s still trying to stand as Shiro threatens to push him over. How hard Gueros is trying to make Shiro — anyone — believe him, that he’s innocent, that he’s not a monster. The irony is not lost on him. The ugly realization is like a shattered mirror he can't look away from. The barcode is gone from his wrist but he still feels the burn, still feels the imprint of something tainted, still feels the disgusting evil in his veins and blood. “Tell me the _truth_!”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know, please don’t kill me, I want to—!“

“Shiro!” Keith calls, shouts at him. “He doesn’t know!”

“He’s lying!” Shiro roars back.

“He’s not!” Keith pleads and Shiro stops, turning to him, anger tracing his eyes. Keith swallows, tries to find something to moisten how dry his tongue has gotten. He can't let Shiro do this. Can't let Shiro become that kind of person, the kind that loses all idealism, the kind that _loses._ Shiro is better than that, Keith sees it, and he can't allow the other to fall head-first into the gaping maw of the abyss, not when Keith knows how it feels looking up from the bottom. “He’s not. There’s a clone-chip embedded in every trooper at enlistment. The trooper is never aware of it. That’s how they tracked him down.”

He looks into the defector’s eyes and tries to avoid noticing how stone-still Shiro has become, as the words are spoken aloud, and he pulls his sleeve up and shows the burns of his wrist running up to his arm. “That’s how they find us. We need to get yours out.”

The realization, the understanding, sinks in and Shiro’s voice is tremulous. “Keith...you never…”

“Please,” the defector turns to Shiro. “I’ll do it, just get it out, I don’t want it. I never wanted this.”

“Our medical droid can perform minimal invasive surgery, take it out as fast as possible.” Shiro says, words hollow and light as Keith pulls the sleeve down and nods at the captain, and Gueros manages to stand on his legs and nods, frantic.

“Shiro,” Keith watches as Shiro turns back to him, Gueros by his side, and his eyes are so full of emotion — pain, regret, realization and just a deep, deep sorrow — and Keith swallows. “Lance and Hunk need help out there.”

The only fighter remaining aboard is a Z-95 headhunter — painted in steel-black and violet — and it gleams like a veteran, an experienced war pilot. It’s engine thrusters are operational, the wings intact. Everything about it screams of one person in the hangar.

Shiro knows what Keith is asking — the magnitude of what it means, the things they don’t have the time to talk about. The things that have been twisted and coiled into blades ready to pierce through skin and vein, things that have gone unsaid in the repulse of blaster fire in space, things that have been silenced in the choices made in the split of a second, one life for the other. 

Keith nods once, twice. “Trust me.”

Shiro doesn’t even take a second to blink and his expression grows serious. “Go get them, soldier.”

∞

The sky is blue-green, reflecting the waters below. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Keith doesn’t really care.

Still, Theed is beautiful — in her bubbling rivers and her tall mountains and cliffs, and her teal-beige towers and the fact that it gave him and the galaxy Shiro. Keith doesn’t really believe in finding a place in a person, finding all of a city in a single body—

But the intelligence of the Naboo, their kindness, their love for all things beautiful and historical, and the way they always choose to talk than raise swords, play with words than with the lives of their people—

He sees all that in Shiro.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” The captain asks, crowding against him, smiling softly and the sun paints his dark hair into a lighter shade of brown and he looks ethereal like this, in his home world’s native clothes, robes of silver on his frame, his bare neck and the delightful curl of his hair.

“Like what?” Keith asks, leaning back against the open deck’s stone rail. Shiro grins, and it’s as blinding as the sun.

“Like I’m about to disappear or something. I’m not going anywhere, you know that.” Shiro reassures him, holding Keith’s hand and curling it over Shiro’s chest, on the bare skin exposed by the neckline of his Naboo clothes. Shiro’s heartbeat is steady under his palm.

Keith swallows and looks up at him. “Do you trust me?”

The ring in his pocket burns like a newly made blaster cartridge.

The only word to describe the expression on Shiro’s face is love. “Always.”

The ring looks infinitely better on Shiro’s hand.

∞

Amazing.

That’s the only thing Keith can think of as he maneuvers the Z-95 towards the incoming squadron. Lance and Hunk have already engaged them — and he can see lines of red and green streaking past each other, explosions on collisions and static on scraping against steel.

Keith goes into a roll, effortlessly dodging the laser fire off his right flank. The comms link flash and Keith opens the line. “What’s the status?”

“These kriffing squinty assholes are all over the place, why can’t they just stand still!” Lance growls and Keith heads toward his quadrant, pulling the triggers and blasting the wings off the nearby interceptors. One blaster fire is enough to destroy it due to the lack of any defensive armor, but you had to actually _hit_ them first.

Hunk was having a more difficult time with them — the size and weight of his ship being a favorite target of the TIE interceptors. Keith and Lance change course and veer east, towards Hunk. The _Kerberos_ is still heading upwards - past Corsin’s orbit - and Keith chases after the interceptors heading towards the gunship.

“How’s the clone-chip goin’?” Keith pulls up, the Z-95 easily changing course at his touch, and pulls the trigger. The squint rolls away before the laser fire could even reach it, hitting air. Damn it.

“Just started,” Shiro comes on line, “how’s it out there, boys?”

“Dandy.” is the flat response from Lance. It’s so reminiscent of so many of their runs that Keith can’t help the scoff that comes up his lips.

“What, feelin’ a little slow today, McClain?” Maybe it’s just the excitement, or the rush of adrenaline or just the freedom pumping in his veins as he arcs through the sky in the Z-95 but Keith laughs loud when Lance curses in response.

He’s directly above the _Kerberos_ now, and the silver-chrome plating of the _Krolia_ whips past them, and Keith watches as the automated turrets come online and start firing on the interceptors. A few are caught in the crossfire, smoke and light exploding as the ships fall to Corsin, pulled by gravity. The rest managed to skim past the fire and head towards the other side of the _Kerberos_.

“Got some on my left,” Keith announces before he changes his path and moves the Z-95 towards the incoming squadron. He aims with his scope and open fires, the squints dispersing on being fired at. They fly off in directions like flies, and the _Kerberos_ continues in its ascent without distraction. No need to waste it’s particle shields on TIE Interceptors, anyway.

Keith circles back towards the rest of the fighting — Lance and Hunk caught in the middle — and flies past the _Krolia_. “Thace, keep them off her.”

“Already done. Just make sure you don’t get blown out of the sky.” Was the response and Keith rolls his eyes, chuckling. “Yes, pops, I’ll take that into consideration.”

Keith is sure he’s imaging it, like actually imagining it — Thace chuckling with him. Shaking his head, Keith cuts downward, surprising the Interceptors above him — just as they come into range of the _Krolia’_ s turrets. Twin trails of smoke follow the falling squints and Keith hears the cheer from the comms link, grinning to himself as he kicks the thrusters up and he pulls on the trigger, scraping the metal off an Interceptor’s wing.

It’s been so long — too long — since he’s been inside a cockpit, flying a starfighter. The Z-95 was amazing, following his commands with the ease of a machine that’s had so much history with its pilot. Keith won’t admit it, but it helps that the cockpit smells like Shiro, like he’s one step closer.

Laser fire glances off his wing and he growls. Lance’s voice comes on. “Stop daydreaming, pretty boy, and get some actual fighting done.”

“Why, thank you, Lance. I was feeling a bit ugly today.” It was so easy, falling back into the banter flooding the comms link, and hearing the others’ voices — and it’s like he’s thrown back in time, before all this, before all this mess.

“Try not to ruin the paint job, soldier.” Comes Shiro’s even voice, amusement lurking underneath, and Keith realizes it’s not just him.

He pulls the starfighter into a dive and pulls right back up, firing lasers at two more squints.

It’s not just him who misses this. It’s not just him who longed for this with a desperation that bordered on aching. Not just the fighting, or the laser fire or the feel of the engine under his hands.

Keith thinks of the laughter and the sarcasm on the comms link, the urge and the need to fly faster, speed past, outrun the stars in the peripheries of his vision—

The exhilaration and the pounding of his heart and the victorious roar of being alive, being free—

With a force so strong that it brings tears to his eyes—

_How the hells was I able to live without this?_

Cutting to the right, Keith snakes past the others and open fires, taking out the Interceptor in Lance’s scope. “What the hell, man?”

“Don’t sweat it, Lance,” Keith grins and tumbles away and curtails around Hunk’s freighter, sweeping past his flank and blasting at the Interceptors directly above him. “Time to step up, Lance. I’m making you look bad.”

He ignores the neverending line of curses Lance throws his way as he opens the comms link again. “How we doin’ there, cap?”

It’s nothing to him, the easiness of falling into that old back-and-forth, how easy it is to call Shiro ‘cap’ and ‘sir’ and almost forgetting that there are too many things, too ugly things that has happened between them that it’s impossible to be _easy_ and _light_ with this—like he’s a sinless man, just another man flying across the galaxy without hands painted in blood.

“Almost finished here, soldier.” Shiro answers, voice warm and amused. Gods, Keith will record that voice and hold on to it for the rest of his life. It’s easier to admit that, now. Inside a cockpit and his blood pumping, nothing is more terrifying and tempting than the great beyond. “Just a bit more and we’re good.”

And if Keith thinks more on that line than what it actually means, then he doesn’t care. He’s riding the tail-end of his own asteroid and he’ll see this through until the end.

“Great! I think Lance can do well with a bit of sleep and—”

Keith curses as blaster fire hits the side of the Z-95, not noticing the Interceptor gaining distance below him, distracted as he was, and he cuts east, away from the range of fire, towards the _Kerberos_ , trying to steady the line of the fighter—

“Keith, watch out!”

Just in time as two more Interceptors come up on his flank and he growls, pulls the grip to force the ship into a roll, except he has to stop halfway and throw all of the ship’s weight to the other side as the Interceptors fire on the direction of his ship—

Damn it, he thinks. Two more show up from below. There’s a total of five on his tail and he estimates that Lance and Hunk have around ten on their end.

Keith tries to shake them off, dodging the barrage of lasers on every direction, unable to roll away. They were hitting the areas he would roll off to, predicting his moves. Kriff.

“Uh, a little help over here,” Keith mutters, curses as laser fire chafes overhead. “They’re all over me.”

“Keith, can you pull them in range of the _Krolia?_ ” Comes Shiro’s voice and he grunts an affirmative, he was nearing the gunship anyway. All he has to do is keeping the blaster fire from hitting him.

_Almost there_ , Keith thinks as he skims the side of the _Kerberos_ —

Twin blaster fire strikes his rear engine and the sizzle of the electricity and the twist of the fighter has Keith screaming, the Z-95 colliding with the side of the _Kerberos_ , metal screeching as they slide against each other and something explodes off his wing, one of the smaller thrusters probably and he can smell the gas and the smoke from the broken side of the fighter, and it's in his cockpit and down his throat as the force of the impact pulls him down against the panel, groaning as he's banged against it—

He only has one eye open, blood running down his face from slamming his head down the dashboard so hard, his helmet visor shattered. “ _Fuck!_ ”

He squints through the pain and pulls the fighter upward, just in time as the _Krolia_ open fires and takes out three of the chasing Interceptors.

It takes him a while, upon seeing the explosion of the two squints and the blaring of the comms link, does he realize that his hearing is shot a bit. He grits his teeth, opens the line. “Yeah?”

“Keith! What happened?” Comes Shiro’s voice and — there’s another underneath it, quieter. Thace.

“Fucking squint got me by the wing. I’m flying with one eye, got blood on my face.” He curses again as he evades laser fire, turning his ship about. He raises a hand to wipe it out of his eyes, except glass crunches under his hands — unnoticed in the adrenaline — and more blood runs down. “Fuck, I can’t see a single thing.”

Shiro comes back on line and his voice is low, even. “Keith, listen to me, calm down. Don’t panic. I’ll be your eyes.”

_Kriffing what?_ Keith thinks, feeling the rise of panic up his veins and up his throat as his vision full on red with nothing but the taste of his own blood. He’s going to die here. Keith realizes that. How the hell is he supposed to pilot with both eyes out of commission? Kriffing head had to be a bleeder. Damn it, couldn't he have gotten injured somewhere else? He needs his eyes to see, to pilot and he can't lose them - not in this, when there's a battle out there and everyone needs him to be on top of his game, if they're going to make it out alive and Shiro is here, and he can't let Shiro die, not lose this battle, can't lose, too much to lose, gods, he can't breathe, how do you breathe, someone tell him—

Maybe he says it aloud, accidentally, because Shiro’s voice is stronger, louder, intent. “Calm down, soldier. You are not dying today. Not if I can help it.”

Keith bites his teeth, breathing fast. “Keith, listen to me, calm down, just breathe, okay?”

His throat is closing in, and the blood in his eyes turn black and he’s suddenly hurtling through outer space and through a Star Destroyer and he’s crash landing into a strange planet and running across a battlefield with a dead Rodian boy in his arms—

He hears laser fire overhead and something catches at the top of the cockpit and a cry escapes his lips. “Keith, just breathe okay? In and out. Don’t listen to the rest of the world, just listen to my voice, okay?”

_Hold on to his voice. Gotta hold on. Don’t let go._ Keith thinks, and he replays Shiro’s voice over and over until the memories disappear and—

Keith nods, even if Shiro can’t see it — his voice had grown so low, like the way it does in the morning, when Keith wakes him up with a kiss and Shiro says ‘good morning, Keith’ or ‘I love you’ and, okay, just breathe. He can do that. Breathing. Imagines the way Shiro's lips move when he's speaking, or the shift of his eyes as he tries not to be embarrassed and he follows suit, Keith follows the metronome and the oscillations and he can slow down and breathe.

“Good, just keep breathing, alright? I’m gonna get you out of this. I promise.”

Keith starts calming down, his muscles loosening, and the tension in his gut lightening. It doesn’t fully disappear, but it becomes easier to breathe, becomes easier not to jump every time laserfire flies overhead. Shiro’s never broken a promise before. He hasn't. It's Keith who broke the promises, who destroyed the trust. It's Keith who shouldn't be making those words, reciting them, vowing them - but Shiro can, and he has always stuck to his words. Keith's going to get out of this alive. Maybe. Hopefully.

“I won’t let you do this alone, Keith. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.” His answer is instantaneous. _Always._ “I do.”

“Good. I trust you, and you trust me. Always has been, right?”

“Yeah.” He repeats. He nods, even if all he sees is red. “Yeah.”

Shiro’s voice is warm, and with Keith’s eyes closed, it feels like he’s in the cockpit with him, lips by his ears. “Let’s get you out of here, alright?”

Keith swallows. “Okay. Okay. Tell me what to do.”

“There are two on your tail, and they’re not giving an inch up. Ignore the laser fire, their angle isn’t in the best position. They’re avoiding the _Krolia’s_ range. You need to go up, Can you do that? Just straight up, Keith.”

“I—I guess so.” He swallows, and holds the grips tighter and _pulls_ down on them, shifting the angle until he feels he’s parallel against an invisible vertical line. He doesn't know how the ship looks, where the Interceptors are or if he's hurtling face-first towards a cliff but it all doesn't matter. Shiro's voice is reverberating in his head and over his skin and cedar covers him in a warm swathe.

“Amazing, Keith. You’re flying nose up. Good, keep going, alright?”

“O-okay, Shiro. Okay.”

Keith bites his lip, ignoring the distant fighting and just keeps the nose up, keeps the weird feeling of being analogous to the horizon and tries not think too much about it unless his stomach decided to join in the weirdness. “Just keep going higher, Keith.”

He keeps flying up, onward and upward and believing in Shiro. Always had. Never faltered, not even once. His faith in the galaxy, in people, in himself — those were the things that broke, that faltered, that split into too many shards. Never his faith in Shiro, it has always stood strong. How can it not, after what Shiro had done for him? Showed him that the galaxy wasn't the hellhole he was taught all his life? That there was still something beautiful in spite of all the shitty things and the dead and the ooze that the Empire has churned out, just as long as you're hopeful enough to look for it?

“Keith, I’m going to ask you to do something crazy and terrifying but I need you to do it on my count, alright?”

“Shiro, what’s—” Keith bares his teeth as laser fire reaches past him and glances off his wing. Barely a scratch but not doing wonders at the sudden pounding of his heart. He tries to look around but only sees varying degrees of red.

“I’m going to need you to cut the engine and do a nosedive.”

“What!” Keith’s not the only one who shouts it — he’s sure he can hear Hunk and _Thace_ under his own voice.

“ _Boy,_ you better be joking.” Definitely Thace and Keith can hear the growl in the voice and he tries not to think about the worry and the protectiveness, doesn’t like to think about what it’s doing to his too-rapid beating heart. When Shiro comes back, he doesn’t acknowledge the rest, only Keith.

“You trust me, right, Keith? You know I’ll never let you crash.”

And — Keith does. He does. He _trusts_ Shiro, always had. Even after everything. Even after every ugly thing that’s happened between them. Even after the laser fire and the mechanical arm and the infection turning everything good in Keith into a husk of what it was. He still trusts Shiro. “Yeah, yeah. I trust you, Shiro.”

He hears the others complain but he ignores them - doesn't focus on what it does to his heart, at their concern and their frustrations, even after the shit he's pulled, the trust he, focuses on that one voice holding him from going off the brink. “Thank you, Keith.”

He bites back a sob and purses his lips instead as he continues upward until Shiro continues—

“Now, Keith.”

Trust - like loosening a cord and letting the wind allow you to free fall into the depths below, content in the belief that someone will always be there to catch you. Keith cuts the engine and he feels the fighter still in the air for half a second before gravity takes its due, and he starts falling - faster, faster and hurtling to the earth. His hands are cold as he grips the handles tight and adjusts the flap so he’s falling, nose in.

“Good, keep on going, Keith. I won’t let you crash, I promise.”

Inside the cockpit it is strangely silent, without the hum of the engine and the blown-out hearing and the red in his vision, the only thing he can feel and hear is Shiro’s voice and his own beating heart. He lets go of his control and his walls and just lets—himself be suffused in Shiro’s voice. It's more than he's expected, more than he's allowed himself to dream of. In the months and years that have passed by since that day in orbit, Keith's never allowed himself to think this much, hope this much. This was something no longer allowed, beyond his reach and unattainable. The alcohol only kept the want at bay, and the dreams turning into black so he'll never be reminded of what he can't have.

“Put your hand on the engine clutch,” Keith follows, grips it tight and makes sure it’s not going to slip from his hand. “On my mark, kick the thrusters up and fly parallel to the horizon before going up, okay?”

“Okay.” Keith injects more energy, more life into his voice. His throat is shot, and he just wants to let go and drown in the reverb of Shiro's voice in his chest. “Got it, cap.”

The freefall is silent save for the crack of Shiro’s radio line and Keith’s own breathing. The hurtling, the descent to the earth isn’t terrifying — not when there’s nothing to hear or see, except the echoes of Shiro’s voice in his ears.

It’s not a bad way to go. One of the best, actually.

The rushing is barely existent, and the tipping of gravity barely corporeal and Keith is content to just breathe and wait and focus on his own heartbeat and Shiro’s voice in his ears. It suddenly dawns on him.

Patience yields focus.

What he’s most grateful for is that he gets to hear Shiro’s voice again, just for a bit, before the end.

_“Keith, now!”_

But Keith is a gambler, and he’s not about to throw the towel in as he screams — _feels_ Shiro’s words before hearing them — and pulls the clutch and feels the engine burst into life under his hands and hears the roar of the thrusters as he pulls the nose up — parallel to the horizon — and he hears the unmistakable crash of something behind his fighter and the Z-95 cruises down on something rushing, solid yet soft, parts beneath the bottom of the fighter and Keith can feel it, the smooth washing away of the grime and the dirt, _the sea_ , and Keith pulls everything he has up and forward and into the sky, rising like the sun—

His comms link explodes as cheers echo - blast and deafen him as the voices rise and shout and scream and their syllables wrap around his heart like silk - in his ears but he can only hear one thing, over and over—

“You were beautiful, Keith.”

And his scream grows hoarse as it fades into a broken cough, and he wipes at his face once more and he can finally see—

The endless infinite black of the galaxy - possibility, hope, freedom and it's just the outline of his dreams and the future he's drawn on the inside of his heart by a Naboo shoreline and a Corellian sunset - and Lance and Hunk’s ships beside him, rising, flying past Corsin's atmosphere—

“We got the code-chip out and it’s gone,” Pidge finally announces. “We’re jumping into lightspeed when we exit low grav.”

Keith breathes hard, breathes fast as he blinks too quickly, eyes stinging, still looking at the approaching stars and he slowly adjusts the speed and angle of his fighter, cruising in between the _Kerberos_ and Lance, the _Krolia_ to the west and—

Shiro’s voice echoing in his head, over and over. _You were beautiful, Keith._

A flashing red line — private — and Keith swallows before closing the others and opening the red comms line. Thace’s voice is what he hears, and there’s something tight about it. Suffused. Full. It's shaky with emotion, and fragile with the weight of his words. “Shiro was right.”

“What?”

“You were beautiful a while ago, Keith. He brings the best out of you.” Thace answers, strained and awkward sounding. Keith feels the reddening of his cheeks and he doesn’t think too much of the image of him blushing when there’s blood on his face.

“Where’s this coming from, Thace?” He asks, his own voice just as tight. They’ve — he and Thace never talked about things that were too deep, too bare for their tattered pride to handle. This is new. This is odd and it does weird things to Keith’s chest.

“He makes you smile and laugh. You...sound good when you laugh. You should laugh more. It suits you.” Is the strained line and Keith doesn’t know what to say, his lips mouthing words and just—Thace isn’t like this, they’re not like this. They’re not usually this honest. It’s...weird. Pleasant, but weird.

“Don’t tell me you’re being sentimental, pops.” Keith jokes, tries to make his voice light. It’s silent on the other line — until Thace chuckles and the sound is alarming, uncommon and Keith’s sure his mouth has fallen to the floor in shock. Funny thing — Thace doesn’t sound too bad laughing, too. It's rough, grating at the edges, but it's deep, and bellowing. Warm. Welcoming. Familiar.

“Probably. Let this old man have his moments, Keith.”

And it just sunk in — how long they’ve journeyed together, and Keith can only count on one hand the times he’s heard Thace laugh, including this one. He bites his lip, unsure of what he’s about to say and if it’s welcome. After this mission, the only sure thing is that he’ll be flying away with Thace and he doesn’t want to make things awkward. He doesn’t want to be by himself. Not anymore.

“Yeah, well...you sound good when you laugh, too.”

And—he realizes, it’s not too terrible to be completely honest sometimes as Thace’s ensuing chuckle fills his ears, and Keith grins until he’s laughing, too. They should do this more often. It’ll help — with the loneliness and the regret. Maybe, lessen the need to buy ale?

Eh, forget that. Maybe ale and laugh at each other. That’s a better compromise.

He’s about to open his line and bring the suggestion up when the internal hyperspace radar blares red, on all channels and just as they hit low gravity, a Star Destroyer exits hyperspace and they come into range of its tractor beam.

∞

“Why’d you bring me here?” Keith asks, voice slurring and his vision is blasting colors of black and white in too rapid flashing. It’s not enough. Never enough. He can still see the Rodian boy’s dead eyes staring back at him. He can still hear the mother’s bone-chilling scream in his ears. “I failed, Thace. I fucked up.”

The Galran is quiet — facing the open space from his seat in the cockpit. Keith leans his head against the metal of the navicomputer’s panel and lets the cold bite into his skin. “Is that all you see?”

A scoff, a derisive snort that climbs his throat and exists in a sob, and the warmth is white-hot on his skin. “There’s nothing here but mistakes, Thace. What the fuck do _you_ see?”

Thace pulls the clutch and sets the ship to fly low, leaving Sullust’s atmosphere. When he speaks, his voice is a note louder than Keith’s own crying. “I see someone who tries so damn hard every day to be a better person.”

"Trying isn’t enough, Thace. Not until you’re on the ground and bleeding and dying. Nothing is enough.” The flask is on the ground and the alcohol is spilling out like a caricature of blood, the pool under the boy’s body—

Thace’s silence is answer enough. The warmth of the boy's blood on his hands is enough. He's not good for anything else.

∞

“Damn it!” Keith curses, tries everything - pulls all the clutches, presses all the buttons, even kicks the grips. Nothing. The starfighter isn’t doing anything — so are the Lance’s and Hunk’s and, his stomach sinking lower, as the _Kerberos_ is stuck in the same situation.

“We were too late.” Pidge says, voice tight. “They manage to pin us down when we were leaving the atmosphere.”

_Kriff_ , Keith thinks. They were this close to getting out of here — out of this mess and the mission finishing. The Empire must have found evidence of their sabotage of the Eriadu city archives faster than they anticipated.

Just in time as they receive a holo transmission from the Star Destroyer as the tractor beam slowly pulls them in. _“Attention unidentified vehicles, this is Officer Patton of the Vindication. You are in unauthorized possession of Imperial property. Surrender said item and all others that may be deemed related upon extraction or you will face Imperial sanction._ ”

Keith mutters another curse — Imperial sanction was a prettier term for blown-out torture. The rest of his battered body can attest to all that. Fuck.

“Any ideas, guys?” He asks, opening the lines.

“None, unless we can disable the tractor beam and get out of here fast.” Came Hunk’s response.

“Shiro?” Keith asks — leave it to Shiro to think of something, to find a workaround. How many times had they narrowly escaped with their lives, all thanks to Shiro’s quick thinking? The intelligence lurking in those eyes aren’t just for show — he was a force of nature in and out of the battlefield.

There’s a cold absence on the other line that seeps all the hope from Keith’s chest as Shiro sighs, defeatedly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. We can fight when we get on board but we’re outnumbered, and we won’t make it ten steps before we’re gunned down.”

“Don’t even talk about jumping into hyperspace while caught in a tractor beam,” Pidge adds, her voice flat and weary. “You gotta be really, really lucky  _and_ insane or you end up splitting yourself apart.”

Keith leans his head back, the Star Destroyer getting closer with each passing second and there was nothing in his mind — no answer, no tricks, no workarounds. Nothing.

This is...the finish line. There’s nothing to hide who they are, what their purpose was. The moment they step out of their ships, hands in the air, the Empire’s going to recognize them — recognize Shiro — and they’ll be laser meatbags at the end of it.

Damn it. This was so unfair. Keith grunted and then roared, punching the dashboard until his hand is bleeding. “Fuck.”

“Keith, calm down, please.” Shiro comes on line and his voice is soothing and, just, how can he be so calm in this situation? They got no way out and they’re being dragged to their deaths by the second. “Talk to me, to us, okay?”

“It’s unfair,” he says, honestly, and the rest of the line goes quiet. “It’s unfair. Shouldn’t be like this. Don’t get to go out like this. I hate this. I fucking hate this.”

“I know, Keith,” Pidge says, and there’s a hint of a smile in her voice, “for what it’s worth, you’re still the same crazy pilot I know.”

“Hey, I thought I _was_ the crazy pilot you know?” Lance interrupts, sounding a bit offended. Pidge laughs, and even Keith manages to crack a grin. He doesn’t say anything about the echo of grief in his friends’ voices, or the way their voices tremble.

“Should have gotten those upgrades, shouldn’t have been too cheap on the armor,” Pidge complains and Lance starts listing off times she’s been skimpy on their armaments. Keith laughs a bit at Pidge’s retort and can even hear Shiro’s smile as he tells the two to stop fighting. The banter - the arguing - it's all familiar, like a cresting wave at the edge of the sea and the missing piece in a broken heart wrapped too haphazardly and Keith bites his lip and the breathe he looses is noisy. The familiarity, the epiphany of how much he missed this - them, Voltron - has his entire body trembling in grief, in missed chances, in the long-familiar head of regret.

It’s silent on the line — nothing but their own breathing as the colossal size of the Star Destroyer covers the entirety of Keith’s view. The entire imagery of everything wrong in the galaxy — everything that turned good people into horrible killers, struggling to keep their heads above the water. Just a reminder of what Keith’s failed to fight against.

“I should have called my parents more,” Hunk admits, suddenly, strained. “should have visited them more.”

Lance guffaws until it dissolves into a cough that sounds like a watery gasp. “I should have taken that trip to Cato Neimoidia, would have loved to see those bridges.”

“I should have piloted starfighters more,” Pidge laughs at her own regret, tracing the line between amusement and fear. “I upgrade yours all day and I don’t even get to ride one. Poodoo.”

There’s a collective chuckle over the line and Keith bites his lip, gripping the skin above his wrist too hard. “I should have…I should have been better. A better person. A better friend. A better—” _Lover? Soulmate?_ “Better Keith.”

The silence following his turn is tense, tangible and it weighs on his chest. “Shiro?”

There’s an exhale of air on the other line and Shiro’s voice is overcome with emotion. “I should have told you ‘I love you’ more. Should have kept saying it until you believed me, until it’s the only thing you know. Until you start believing that you are a better person, that you're worth it."

There’s no question who Shiro meant by ‘you’. Keith’s own vision turns hazy, a rushing in his ears and in his heart and the white of the Star Destroyer turns into a lineless miasma.

“Thace?” Pidge prods. There’s no response as Keith wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Thace?”

The rushing grows louder, stronger and Keith realizes it’s not just in his ears, not just a figment of his own imagination, but it’s out of his ears and is echoing in all of the comms lines open. Keith turns in his seat, and his eyes widen as the _Krolia_ above them, her thrusters blaring, way out of range from the tractor beam. A sight to behold, rising above them like a harbinger of hope - elegant and powerful and immovable. 

“Is he escaping—?” Lance asks, incredulous coloring his tone.

“No,” Shiro answers and there’s something grave in his voice and Keith doesn’t know what it is until he realizes that the _Krolia_ is turning to face the Star Destroyer, head-first, and _all_ of its engines are open and active — including the hyperdrive—

“Thace! Thace, what the hells are you doing?” Keith shouts into the link, pulling at the clutch, pushing the buttons, trying to make the fighter move. “Shiro, Pidge, tell him to stop. Thace, don’t you fucking dare do this. Thace! Thace, answer me!”

Light gleams across the corvette’s chrome plating and she shines like a beacon, a new hope, willing to stand up against a bigger enemy, and Keith is screaming into the link. “Thace, fucking answer me!”

It’s not just him — Pidge is calling, Shiro is shouting, Lance and Hunk too, trying to make contact. Thace wasn’t answering.

“Thace, _please._ ” Keith begs, his voice breaking, a sob crawling out of his throat. “Don’t do this. _Please.”_

He doesn’t want to lose any more. He’s lost so much, lost everyone he ever loved and cared about and he can’t lose one more. He can’t afford it, his heart can’t take it, his mind can’t take it. Not Thace. Never Thace, please. Not the one who has seen him at his worst and still found something good, not when he’s lost Shiro already. He can’t lose Thace.

“Captain Shirogane,” Thace finally answers, and he sounds even and calm. Imperious. “It has been an honor fighting with you. I can see that the Rebel Alliance is better served in the hands of people like you.”

Keith jumps in his seat, hits his head against the cockpit as he punches the link, the pain dulled out as his skin grows blue and red at the abuse. “Shiro, tell him to stop. Thace, don’t do this. Please, oh my gods, please don’t.”

Shiro’s grief is clear, and the resignation is inescapable. A captain through and through, willing to make the hard plays. “The honor is all mine, Thace, and the Rebellion’s. We will not forget your actions today.”

There’s a smile in Thace’s voice as he answers, and Keith can’t hear anything beyond it, even Pidge’s panic or Lance’s cursing. “I did only a small part, Captain. Please, tell General Mothma my deepest regrets. I hope I’ve done enough.”

Shiro is stunned, so is Keith. Thace...had been part of the Rebel Alliance all this time? Somehow, the thought is both surprising and unsurprising.

“And, captain, if I may ask — one final favor —”

“Anything, Thace. Anything.”

Keith feels gravity disappear from his hold, earth and sand and space tumbling away as punches the dashboard over and over and over until the grips and the buttons and the panels are covered in a thin, wet film of scarlet and crimson.

“Please, take care of him. He is wayward, and is easily lost and far too hurt but he is a good man. He makes mistakes, but he makes them with the best intentions, with no concern for his own well-being.”

Keith hears the unspoken, the hidden, the secret lines of _he tries so hard every day to be good, to be better, he’s always trying, I hope you can see that, captain_ and there’s no question who Thace is talking about as Keith lets his head rest against the cold of the dashboard, repeating Thace’s name over and over.

“I will, Thace. I promise.” _Even if he fights me every step of the way, I’ll see it through until the end._

There’s a sigh of relief from Thace before he leaves instructions. “Once the tractor beam is disabled, you need to jump into lightspeed before you are caught in the blast. Hunk, Lance, make sure Keith is with you before you make the jump.”

Twin affirmations and Keith closes his eyes, his hand bleeding from slamming it too many times on the dashboard. His nails are broken and there’s a sprain growing, but he doesn’t care.

It’s too hard to breathe. Too hard to cry. He just wants to turn to stone and not feel again.

“Keith,” Thace’s voice is warm and grounding and Keith’s reminded of all the times he’s been there, all the times he’s been keeping watch over Keith, making sure he eats, that he bathes — that he hasn’t killed himself in his own grief, that he hasn't drowned in a puddle of alcohol and every filament of his regret and he hasn't suffocated under the earth-heavy weight of his own ruin.

Thace says something in Galran, and when Keith’s mind translates it, he can’t do anything but scream soundlessly as the rush of the _Krolia’_ s hyperdrive engine kicks in, magnificent and blinding, and it deafens his ears.

∞

_Hold fast to your loyalty and honor, my son._

∞

There’s a moment — of silence, utter and complete quiet.

Nothing happens - no sound happens, like the entire galaxy holding its breath.

And the _Krolia_ rushes forward — too-fast, too-strong — and light flashes all around them as hyperspace opens for a moment and they’re all bathed in its blue-white glow—

And a hurtling screech, terrible, horrible, imprinting into the skein of Keith's soul—

The Star Destroyer is intact, one moment, and in a blink — or even faster — of an eye, there’s a gaping maw on the upper deck of the ship, a cut line from bow to end, and the edges are glowing molten red and the tractor beam’s control center is ripped apart in the silence that follows—

And like time finally catching up, the Star Destroyer explodes from within—

Blinding white light in an outward burst, beautiful and destructive and a maelstrom of heat and energy twisting and lashing about, threatening to pull them in—

Keith stares, unblinking at the incoming light.

There’s the screech of metal as Hunk’s freighter crashes into his side and they’re hurtling towards the _Kerberos_ —

Shiro shouts, “Now, Pidge!" just as his ship hits the steel ground of the hangar.

Keith can’t look away from the explosion, reaching out, until it disappears into nothingness as they jump into lightspeed.

∞

Keith should think that he’d have enough of the lightspeed’s rushing lines and the blue glow, but he’s not. It’s a good distraction. Away from different things — like the absence of a mauve-skinned Galran or the chrome plating of the corvette that has become the definition of home.

Someone sits next to him, he doesn’t really care who — he’s been sitting on this side of the hangar in the last, what, four hours? He could sit longer.

“So,” Ah. It’s Lance. Keith doesn’t blink, doesn’t turn to him. The rushing lines are a great distraction. If he stares long enough, it might blind him. “I got a few bits from Shiro. Heard there was a clone-chip in our defector, and that’s how they found us.”

Keith doesn’t deign it with an answer. He wraps his arms around his knees tighter.

“I heard that you also had a clone-chip in you. Been there since we found you.”

Keith presses his knee against his chin so hard it hurts. He doesn’t really react. The pain grounds him, makes him realize that he’s still breathing. Just breathing. One, two. In and out. If he keeps following the pattern, it’ll be ingrained into him that he won’t have to keep thinking about learning how to breathe.

“Guess that’s how they found us on Perlemian. They would have followed us everywhere had you been there with us when we made the jump.”

Twelve, fourteen—no, sixteen—starlines criss crossing over each other as the _Kerberos_ continues on its jump.

“You knew that attacking Shiro was the only way for him and for us to leave you and make the jump, didn’t you? Given the situation, there would have been no time to explain — and Shiro would never have left if he knew what you were planning to do.”

Keith wonders if the starlines look the same if they’re jumping to a different system. Probably not.

“Shiro’s ship crashes against Pidge’s and he loses his arm and we spend the next few months to a year relatively free from being chased by Imperial Star Destroyers while you end up, what, as a prisoner onboard one and tortured for the longest time until you escaped?”

Why is space so cold? Why can’t it be warm? His hands are always freezing and they still tremble even when he puts them under his shirt and keeps them closed.

“You fucking martyr wanna-be. I fucking hate you so much, right now.”

And there’s this constant humming — like it's rushing towards something — and Keith’s not sure if it’s really the stars or the engine or just the ship cruising on high speed.

“I can’t forgive you for what you did—”

A hand is on his shoulder and Keith turns to Lance, at the seriousness of his eyes and the grim set of his lips. Keith trembles under his touch.

“—but I can’t judge you for it because I’d have done the same.”

Keith nods, a mechanical action - he doesn’t really feel his head moving, to be honest - just the motion of his vision changing depth that tips him off. Lance extends a hand, across his vision.

Keith pauses, then grabs hold of the hand with his right and squeezes it hard enough to bruise. Lance doesn’t complain, squeezes back just as tightly.

∞

When he hears the knock on his door, Shiro notes that it sounds just a bit hesitant. Of course, he judges himself immensely after the thought has passed — knocks don’t have personality.

However, when he opens the cabin doors, and he sees Keith on the other end, he’s not surprised.

Keith looks up at him, and his hood is down, his hair is still long and over his face but his eyes are clear and the circles under them distinct. The rest of the team are either asleep or trying to find a distraction — just to forget the image of the corvette rushing into a Star Destroyer. Shiro doesn’t know what Keith is thinking about, at the depth of the emotions in his eyes or the things he want—

It feels like he doesn’t know the person on the other end of the door anymore.

All it took was a throw-away confession aboard a hangar for Shiro’s conclusions to turn in on themselves.

“Can I come in?” Keith asks, and his voice is feeble, tired. It hasn’t been half a day since Thace jumped the corvette into hyperspace and crashed into the Star Destroyer.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He steps aside and Keith walks in like he owns the place, cloak whipping behind him, hair tied over his back and he settles on Shiro’s bed, leaving an indent as he looks at Shiro.

Keith walks in like he has never left. Shiro doesn’t know what to make of the pounding of his heart.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks the other, taking the seat across Keith. The other looks at him, for a moment, then his eyes travel around the room. It’s still the same thing — still the same bed, same picture frames. The military training in Shiro never disappeared — if something was working, no need to replace it. He’s efficient, to boot.

Shiro forgot that there’s a holo-shot of Keith on his desk, taken the day Keith proposed to him in Naboo.

Keith looks at the picture and smiles — something small, sad, his eyes are bright with loss. “Don’t you ever wish that you could stop time? Just pause everything and make something last forever?”

_Everyday._ Shiro thinks. _Everyday since the day I met you._

Keith’s eyes are liquid purple in the amber of Shiro’s lamplight. “I’d stop time, then, when you said ‘yes’. I’d stop time, rewind it a couple of seconds and play it over just to hear you say ‘yes’ and do it all over again.”

He laughs, aching and pained. Shiro’s own chest echoes the other’s emotions. “You’d think I’d be bored playing and replaying that moment in my life. No, I wouldn’t. It was the best moment of my life. Still is.”

“Keith,” and how can Shiro stop the emotion in his voice when Keith talks to him like that, with that smile and with the idea of capturing that moment like a holorecorder? It wasn’t just Keith’s best moment of his life. It had been Shiro’s, as well. Still is.

Gods, every moment he has with Keith is the best — even now, even through the ice and the ugliness — Keith’s smile still brings his blood to bear, his laughter still gives Shiro chills and when those eyes light up in joy, no matter how short, it steals the breath from Shiro’s chest. “Why are you here?”

Because Shiro can’t handle it — he’s not ready, will never be ready — if Keith is here just to pretend, to act like whatever was between them was nonexistent. It will be too much to sacrifice, too high a price to pay and it’s one of the few things he has left—

The memory of the happiest days of his life.

With the love of his life.

Keith looks down at his hands and Shiro follows his gaze and he realizes that under the cloak, Keith is wearing a simple shirt and his forearms are bare for Shiro to see, and he greedily takes in the amount of skin — from the scars that line Keith’s knuckles, to the inside of his wrist and up his arm and Shiro wants to kneel on the ground, part the old, tattered cloak and kiss the skin, kiss every bite and scar and line that has detailed every second of Keith’s life—

Keith looks up, and his eyes are naked with emotion. “I heard you, today. When I couldn’t see, back in Corsin, when the blood was in my eyes and I was hurtling down just waiting for your signal. I was patient. I waited, just focused on your voice and my breathing.”

Shiro tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest at the honesty and the clarity of Keith’s words, not hiding behind masks and walls, behind the fringe of his hair or the cover of his hood. The tightness in his chest feels like hope.

“Right before I could hit the ground, right before you said them, I heard you in my mind. Saying the exact thing. It’s like — you were there, in the cockpit with me, and I wasn’t alone.” Keith blinks, and looks down. He takes a breath, Shiro follows, and Keith looks back up at him. “Like I was never alone, all this time.”

Gods, Shiro can’t stop looking at him, at taking all of Keith in — all that Keith was willing to offer, his gaze and his emotions and the liquid gleam of his eyes — and, kriff, Shiro is greedy and ravenous when it comes to Keith, tries to make up for the year-long absence in his chest, tries to reclaim a bit of the happiness he felt then — the happiness he still feels, now, in the moments where he feels—

That the distance between them isn’t irreparable.

Keith breathes deep - the kind that inflates his chest and arches his back and tenses his shoulders. “For the longest time, I thought I was alone. Not just before Rishi, or Balmorra. Even after Perlemian. When I had to make the choice to save you or let the Empire kill you, I knew the price I was willing to play. It wasn’t...this wasn’t what I wanted, but this was the best I was dealt and I tried to make off with it the least damaging way possible.”

Keith laughs, and the sound is grating and abhorrent to hear. It’s not the kind of laugh that Shiro loves. Not the one that he has been dreaming of for the longest time. “Seems like even at my best, I still make a mess of things.”

Keith’s not just talking about his destroyed engines.

Keith’s not just talking about his mechanical hand.

Keith’s not just talking about the distance between them.

“You told me,” Shiro finally speaks, his mouth dry and his throat scratchy. “You told me that it was worth it. That sacrificing yourself to save me was worth it, even if it cost me an arm.”

Keith looks at him for the longest time — just a mixture of affection and loss and regret and old, old pain. “It was.”

“Bantha _shit_ , Keith.” Shiro bellows, anger echoing off the walls. Keith doesn’t jump, but his eyes do flick down to his hands before looking back up. “It _wasn’t_ worth it. It was not fucking worth it.”

“Shiro,” Keith starts, his eyes bright. Shiro isn’t through yet, gesturing to Keith — to his scars and wounds and the ancient pain in his eyes.

“Look at yourself, Keith. Look at yourself in the mirror and tell _me_ it was worth it. Look at what they’ve done to you, what they did over and over and what you allowed to happen to you, and tell me if it was worth it.”

Keith shakes his head, the light in his eyes never parting, the smile on his lips just as sad. “Of course it was, Shiro. If it meant you were safe and alive, I’d do it all over again.”

“ _Can’t you see this is killing me?!_ ” Keith visibly jumps, not in terror, but out of emotion, in response to Shiro’s shout. He tries to control the tone and the volume of his voice, and the words that follow are almost silent. “Don’t you realize — seeing you hurt kills me, Keith? Don’t you realize every time I see your scars, all I could think about is that I should have been there, that I could have protected you?”

And it takes Keith leaning close, his hand on Shiro’s cheek, for him to realize that his vision has blurred and the warmth on his cheeks is not a figment of his imagination.

He grips the hand against his cheek and breathes deep. “I can’t—seeing you hurt is unbearable, Keith, and you locked me out — you disappeared and it’s just—it _hurts_. It’s like I can’t breathe and there’s this—weight on my chest, pressing down and I can’t breathe, I can’t remember how—”

Keith doesn’t look away from him, just nods and presses his thumb against his cheek and Shiro feels the last of the ice thaw away from his heart. “And knowing now that you did all that for me? To keep me safe? It’s unbearable, Keith. It feels like dying and I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m half-empty.”

Shiro presses his nose against the inside of Keith’s wrist, the one where the barcode used to sit, the one with the burn marks. “I can’t breathe without you, Keith. I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“Shiro,” Keith sounds choked, strung and all it takes is Shiro opening his arms for Keith to come hurtling into his arms, warm and alive and breathing and where he belongs. “I’m sorry I wasn't the person you wanted me to be. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to be the hero you thought I was.”

“Baby,” Just—Keith back in Shiro’s arms, locked in them and warm and alive and he feels every tremble of his too-thin frame, feels the sharpness of his hair against Shiro’s skin, feels the wet breath against his neck and every scar and wound is pronounced and lined and Shiro can feel it under his hands as he removes the cloak. “Gods, baby, no, I’m so sorry, too. I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry they hurt you, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop them, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop you, I’m sorry you had to go through all that, I’m sorry you had to waste away to keep yourself alive, I’m sorry you had to sacrifice so much, I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to keep you safe, I’m sorry we had to come to this, I’m sorry for everything you lost, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you lost it all—_

“I love you,” Shiro says, presses against Keith’s temple. It’s the only way to compartmentalize and summarize and, just, say it all in one breath before he explodes from the inside out. “So fucking much. You're enough. Gods, you're more than enough.”

Keith turns his head up, and they’re wide and bright and old but oh, so beautiful. “I love you, too.”

Later, he’ll slowly unwrap Keith from his tattered clothes and the old thorns he’s surrounded himself with.

Later, Keith will slowly run his hand down every inch of Shiro’s skin, the places where he misses Keith most and he realizes that it’s not just his body, but his entire soul.

Later, Shiro will kiss every wound and scar and listen and memorize each story, each history of it, until he can name each one, and he’ll start biting into Keith’s skin, to give him a reminder of scars that won’t make you feel like you’re about to break apart.

Later, Keith will take his shirt off and Shiro will catch sight of the pendant and feel every broken piece of his heart fix itself until it’s whole, it’s perfect.

But, all that is for later—

For now, he just holds Keith close to his heart and doesn’t let go. He’s had enough of letting go. The galaxy can go fuck itself.

“Can I stay here?” Keith asks, breathing the words against his neck.

He’s not just asking about the room, or the night.

Regardless, Shiro’s response is the same.

“Always.”

∞

The Rebel Alliance’s headquarters on Yavin IV is busy, for a lack of a better term. Old starfighters from before Keith was born, to newly manufactured ones and to the newly ‘requisitioned’ ones from Imperial control. Soldiers run across the temple grounds, preparing for missions and patrols and scouting runs.

Overhead, a patrol settles by the temple spires, on the lookout for Imperial presence on the horizon.

“Thank you so much, Shiro,” the man — a fellow captain, from what Keith could see — shakes Shiro’s hand, the access disk they got from Eriadu in the other hand. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped us. This disk has data logs for all the engineers of the superweapon. We’re planning to use this to find the lead engineer’s daughter and use her to track her father’s whereabouts. This could pretty much turn the tides in our favor.”

Shiro nods, solemn. “I hope so, Cass. Good people died for those logs.”

The captain — Cassian Andor — sighs, and there’s an oldness in his dark eyes as he nods, agreeing. “One day, Shiro. One day, this galaxy will be free. I just hope you and I will live to see it.”

“I hope so, too.”

The captain is called elsewhere and he turns back to the both of them and gives them a nod, calling to the reprogrammed Imperial droid to his side to follow him.

“Do you think the galaxy will ever be free?” Keith asks, looking up at Shiro. His lover looks to the distance, for a moment, and he follows the other’s gaze to the entrance of the temple. A woman in white stands by the pillars, surrounded by guards and important looking men in fancy robes. She turns to them and smiles, nodding her head, light catching on auburn hair.

Shiro shrugs, raising a hand to wave at her. “Some will say yes, some will say no.”

The woman in white raises a hand and returns the wave. She turns back to the man she was talking to, solemn and orderly, dressed in grey. Behind him, a gold-plated protocol droid stands.

Keith turns from her and back to Shiro, who is already looking back down at him — taupe eyes glowing ochre. “What about you?”

Shiro smiles, and wraps an arm around Keith’s waist. “I have hope. I have faith. They’ve never let me down before.”

Keith smiles back at him and they both turn to watch as, overhead, the sound of Rebel starfighters taking off litter the Yavin skyline, bringing with them the prayers and wishes of a hopeful galaxy — dreaming that the day of freedom is one day closer.

The  _Kerberos_ is still parked at the edge of the temple grounds, but Pidge and the rest can wait. He wants to record this, ensuring that he'll never forget - to remind him in the coming days, of what he's lost, what he's fought for and failed, and what he's gotten _back._

They stand there, in the middle of the plaza, the calm in the bustle, watching the fighters disappear over the horizon. Keith knows, in space, Rebel star cruisers patrol and defend this fragile, new hope. 

“What are you up to next?” Keith asks, leaning into Shiro’s side. The arm around his waist grow tighter, the mechanical hand on his hip. It doesn’t feel cold. It’s warm, and his hand falls to trace the grooves of the metal.

Shiro ponders, his lips in a pout. Light catches in his hair and his eyes, and he's glowing, diaphanous and ethereal and just the dawn of a new dream rising over the horizon stitched into the edges of his person. “I dunno, maybe go home to Naboo, enjoy the rivers, make sweet love to the love of my life next to the open hills and watch the stars with him every night?”

Keith grins, stepping back to push Shiro. His laughter echoes, crinkles his eyes and brings a smile to the faces of the people watching them. It reaffirms the promise in Keith’s heart - of what he's fighting for. This. Them. He'll fight for this. Forever. Forever.

“How about you?” Shiro turns to him, one hand on his waist and the other extended to Keith. A bold smile is on his face, and the gold flecks in his taupe eyes are distinct, glitters. Corellian seas rush about on the edges of his dreams and thoughts, and it doesn't hurt anymore when Keith reaches out. “Mind joining me?”

Keith looks around and shrugs. “Sure. Got nowhere to be, anyway.”

_Got nowhere to be but here, with you._

He twines his hand with Shiro’s—laces their fingers together—

And he doesn’t let go.

  
  
  
**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> And I'll think of you each time I watch from distant skies,  
> whenever stars go down and galaxies ignite.  
> I'll think of you each time they wash me in their light,  
> and I'll fall in love with you again.
> 
> -Starlight; Starset.
> 
> Please listen to this amazing band. They have a space/cosmogony concept for their songs and it just screams SHEITH. Trust me. I wrote all this to both their albums. Also, thank you Wookieepedia for all the specifics I forgot, especially when it comes to starfighters, capital ships and outer rim planets!
> 
> Did a few artworks!:
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155427163@N08/43257560991/in/dateposted-public/)  
>    
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155427163@N08/29387809928/in/dateposted-public/)[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155427163@N08/41493117080/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Personal headcanon: Keith, code: ZX-849011, was set to join the ranks of the Advanced Recon Specialist division of what would later be called the First Order. Basically just me wanting a reason to draw Keith in sniper trooper gear + poncho (based on illustration by Jorge Molina)
> 
> Come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny) and on [Tumblr](https://spaceboykenny.tumblr.com/)


End file.
